


Forbidden

by Andralee



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Altmer - Freeform, Bittersweet, Denial of Feelings, Desire, Dream Sex, Dubcon Kissing, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Enemy Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Interpretation of the Lore, F/M, Falling In Love, Female Friendship, Forbidden Love, Heroic Journey, Inferior Human, Introspection, Light Dom/sub, Love at First Sight, Love/Hate, Magic Fingers, Making Love, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Passion, Porn With Plot, Quest lines not followed, Racism, Romantic Angst, Sex Magic, Sexual Frustration, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Sorry Not Sorry, Soulmates, Stormcloaks, Superior Mer, Thalmor, True Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wanting what you can't have
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:37:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 48,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7220794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andralee/pseuds/Andralee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two people at opposite ends of a civil war find themselves inexplicably attracted to one another.  A reluctant hero with a guarded heart and a Mer who has made himself her sworn enemy, find themselves thrown together in a world where sexual tension and desire conflict with duty and honor.   What happens when the lines between lust and loathing begin to blur and you fall in love with the very person you're supposed to hate?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. City of Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I wrote this story forever-ago on the KMeme. It had a decent following but real life got in the way and I never got around to finishing it there. Also, I tend to be very self critical and I wasn't happy with how I wrote the characters. It started off as a silly sex story but it grew on me. As I was writing I felt there was or maybe, should be, more between them as the whole thing just didn't make sense without the characters developing or having reasons for doing what they do. So I re-wrote the entire story with the same basic undertone, just with a lot more detail, drama, angst and back story. I'll be posting chapter by chapter since I tend to re-write everything compulsively. So yeah... this is an actual "love story" now, not just a fill for a prompt any longer. I'm still not happy with it but it was either post it now or never. :)
> 
> All the Elder Scrollsy Stuff belongs to Bethesda. Siggy is mine. <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ondolemar could only play the polite bureaucrat for so long and his impatience was beginning to show. Lately, his methods of “mediation” or “negotiation” were mostly Thalmor double speak for thinly veiled threats. 
> 
> Sigrun the Dragon Eater, as she was now known, hadn’t expected to be delivering threatening missives when she should be out… well, devouring the souls of dragons.

Ondolemar sighed as he looked out the window of his quarters. It was raining _again_.  He had never really minded rain in the past but he had developed a particular revulsion to it since coming to Markarth.  Rain used to be a sign of Spring, flowers and warm days ahead... not so here.  It was a sickly gray and brought nothing with it except disease and an ever present chill.  He was constantly _soggy feeling_ and uncomfortable, none of which helped to relieve the sourness of mood that plagued him since arriving here.

Whenever he left the keep, he had to breathe through his handkerchief for several moments as there was a constant, lingering foul odor of _dampness_ that permeated nearly everything in this cursed place.  After a particularly harsh rain such as today’s, the smell of old wet stone and mildew could nearly choke you if you weren’t accustomed to it.  He still wasn’t.

 _It had been three years, four months, three weeks and six days_ since he arrived in Markarth and nearly every second of it had been miserable. 

The Altmer couldn’t keep himself from scowling at his musings as he reached for his tea; one of the few luxuries afforded to him by the Dominion.

The warmth of the cup began spreading to his chilled fingers and instead of his usual pouting, Ondolemar found himself relaxing.  He took these moments when they came as they were few and far between. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes in a momentary reprieve, breathing in the jasmine scented steam and allowed himself to daydream of home; a world of endless summer.  He pictured green lushness dotted with orange and cherry blossom trees and for just a moment, he could smell the sweet grass of the softly rolling hills behind his estate.  He breathed in again, reminiscing, and could almost feel the warm floral scented winds blowing along the coast as he sat reading near the open window of his study; beautiful azure waves crashing against the cliffs below. 

He exhaled and the imagery faded, as it always did. 

Opening his eyes to his rather lackluster stone surroundings, he took another sip of tea and the dull ache in his chest made him frown.  There was no denying he missed his home terribly and this drab existence in Markarth was wearing on him.

Before he allowed himself to tread down the path of self-pity, Ondolemar straightened and resigned himself to the interminable tedium of paperwork.  It was part of his current “duties” as he was now in charge of the Justiciars in Skyrim and was not out in the field often these days, much to his dismay.  Such was the fate of a delegator. 

He spent most of his days spying on Igmund, listening in on bits of whispered conversations from the various visitors to the keep, collecting reports from his subordinates and avoiding the Jarl’s dogs.   It was… well in a word _, boring_.

He began neatly penning a new monthly account of arrests for First Emissary Elenwen. They’d made roughly thirty-four arrests in the last month alone.  It was a fair number but it was not enough to get him out of the city and back to the headquarters in Solitude.

Despite what some of the locals believed, he was more than aware that the Shrine to Talos still remained intact.  As a matter of fact, upon his arrival, he had delayed in requesting it be closed since it had been easy bait for heretics ignorant of a Thalmor presence the city.  As the months wore on, the trap became common knowledge and it was no longer useful.  Apostasy was not something that came easy to such a stubborn race of man.

As ridiculous as it was, they were recently resorting to congregating in tombs or caves or anywhere they thought “hidden” from Justiciars determined to root them out.  They were every bit as zealous about their continued worship as the Thalmor were about stopping it.  It was a futile effort for their part, however.  Humans were utterly terrible at subterfuge.

Regardless of his successes, the First Emissary was growing impatient and demanded that Igmund be held accountable for the shrine’s continued existence in his city.  Ondolemar had put in a request on the Thalmor’s behalf to have it officially and publicly destroyed but the Jarl had only agreed to lock it for the time being. He felt removing the shrine completely would be viewed as provocation by Ulfric and more or less invite a Stormcloak attack on the city before it was properly prepared. Igmund also expressed a fear that it may also invite open rebellion in Markarth and with the constant threat of the Forsworn on their doorstep, he was trying to keep the city as stable as possible until the Imperial Army could send reinforcements.

Despite his irritation at his request being denied and the eventual backlash from Elenwen, Ondolemar had found it hard to argue with Igmund’s logic and relayed the message to his superior. Naturally, Elenwen blamed him and was not satisfied, nor remotely convinced of Igmund’s loyalty.  It was a stalemate that had no end in sight and as punishment he was stuck here as the unlucky mediator until Igmund finally relented. 

Ondolemar could only play the polite bureaucrat for so long and his impatience was beginning to show. Lately, his methods of “mediation” or “negotiation” were mostly Thalmor double speak for thinly veiled threats.  It was a tactic that seemed fairly effective thus far and Igmund was already showing signs of caving.  He knew is very presence was a reminder to Igmund that he was beneath the Thalmor boot, Talos shrine or not.  There was a certain finesse to his method of coercion and at times, he rather enjoyed the politics.  Seeing that scrawny Nord squirm was the only redeeming thing about this place of late.

Ondolemar wrapped up his report and put his quill back in the inkwell.  He methodically folded the pages and neatly pressed his stamp in hot wax to seal it.  He took one last sip of his tea before getting ready to make his rounds for the day. 

He rose stiffly and walked to his wash basin, splashed water on his face, cleaned his teeth and out of habit, ran a comb over his short cropped hair.  His lip curled in distaste. Another unfortunate side effect of living in a veritable stone swamp, he quickly discovered that his once long hair did not _do well_ in such conditions.  He didn’t want to think of the event that caused him to shear it but keeping it cut in a military style was both practical and economical for his current purpose.  Of course, the hood and collar he wore negated any reason for him to worry over his hair now. 

He mentally prepared himself for his role.  The routine was important to most Altmer and even more so to those affiliated with the Thalmor.

He quickly shrugged his leather outer jacket on over his dark silk robes and straightened the fabric underneath.  He glanced in the mirror, did a quick check for any wrinkles or specs of dust and then set about donning his leather gloves, flexing his fingers for a better fit.  The cowl was last and he made sure it was placed “just so”, shrouding all in shadow; except for the eyes which seemed as if they look into your soul and know it’s most hidden secrets.  Almost nothing was done without purpose in the Dominion.   The entire uniform was picked to make them look taller, leaner and menacing. They were supposed to strike fear into the hearts of men and he looked his part. 

Ondolemar swung open his door, his face falling into a natural scowl.  He didn’t even bother to pause as he snapped his fingers for his guards to follow.  The young men knew better than to hesitate.

 

Sigrun couldn’t be happier to leave the Silverblood Inn for the day. Between the obnoxious drunks, the harpy wife and the terrible bard, she couldn’t see why _anyone_ would _choose_ to stay there.  _Who could actually sleep comfortably on stone bed?_  

Say nothing of the creepy innkeeper himself with his greasy hair and yellowed teeth, who had leered hungrily at her coinpurse when she first arrived.  All in all, it had to be the worst 10 gold she’d spent in a while.  It must be nice to be the only inn “sanctioned” as usable by city’s head family.  The place reeked of the foul stench of corruption and it hadn’t even taken Sigrun a full evening of listening to whispers to discern exactly where the trail led. 

She grabbed an apple from one of the grocery stalls, tossed a coin to the vendor and headed towards Understone Keep.  She pulled her fur hood up against the damp chill of the morning and began picking her away through the myriad of different people in the streets.  Sigrun noticed the curious glances and heard the whispers.  She quickly gathered that visitors were not a common occurrence here and she knew she was very likely being watched.  Her curiosity was getting the better of her. 

_Keep moving.  Do not get involved in this filth._

Resigning herself to her original purpose was not easy when there were so many more interesting things to get involved in.

For the task at hand, she unfortunately came bearing terms to the Jarl from Ulfric Stormcloak. 

Sigrun the Dragon Eater, as she was now known, hadn’t expected to be delivering threatening missives when she should be out… well, devouring the souls of dragons.  She didn’t particularly care for messenger duties or politics and frankly, unless you were a good friend or family, she wasn’t keen on helping you unless there was good coin in it. 

For some reason, people had assumed that she was some sort of hero since the calling of the Graybeards.  Word got around quickly that she was Dragonborn and many had taken to asking her for help with the most mundane of tasks.  It was like striking a gold mine suddenly, everyone wants something from you and because you have the means, you’re somehow obliged to them.  Yeah… no.  She had sought to remedy that fallacy quickly.  She helped when she felt the cause was worth it; otherwise, unless you had good coin to pay for her time, you were out of luck.  She had no time for petty peasants or squabbling between nobles.

To that end, Ulfric Stormcloak was a thorn in her side despite agreeing with the cause.  He was a very close and personal friend of her late father’s and somewhere a couple of generations ago, their families had inter-married.  He was some sort of 2nd cousin, though Sigrun couldn’t have cared less how.  He did not hesitate to use that to his advantage, however.  Actually, now that she thought about it, there was very little Ulfric didn’t use to his advantage when presented with the opportunity.

Talos was an intrinsic part of their culture and as a devout follower herself, Sigrun found Ulfric’s banner raising against the Empire rather convenient as far as the timing went.  While she could not deny Ulfric loved Skyrim, there always seemed to be something about him that lacked honor.  She could never really pinpoint why she felt that way and it made following orders that much more difficult; especially since, what she dubbed, “The Helgen Incident”.

Perhaps it was her half-Imperial mother’s influence that shaped her opinion but Sigrun knew, deep down, that Ulfric’s intentions had absolutely nothing to do with the freedom of Skyrim or Talos and a whole lot more to do with power grabbing.  If he had his way, Skyrim would almost definitely be weaker if it managed to secede from the Empire. 

Since her father fell in battle six months ago, as family tradition would have it, she was forced to get involved in the war effort as promised.  

Despite her personal feelings and her general support of the Empire, it wasn’t even a week later that she had pledged herself to the Stormcloaks.  The “incident” that occurred at Helgen was a wound that would continue to fester and the irony of being “saved” by a dragon that day was not lost on her.  The Nine had a sense of humor if nothing else.

Ulfric had seemed pleased, albeit surprised, she was still alive when she arrived back in Eastmarch a few weeks later. 

Upon discovery of her being “Dragonborn”, Ulfric felt it was a sign from Talos himself that _he_ was meant to be High King.  How he managed to equate the two was beyond her but she was indeed a powerful ally to have now, after all.  It would seem he almost regretted his choice at Helgen as he wasted no time in making use of her.  Who better to send to deliver a threat than the most powerful Nord Skyrim has known in generations?  Being generally humble, Sigrun did not care for showmanship and this whole axe delivering with a missive left her feeling uncomfortable.  She just wanted to be back home with her books and alchemy table.

Lost in her own musings, Sigrun was surprised to come upon the doors to the keep.  After a long line of unnecessary questioning by the guards, she was finally permitted to enter. 

A scout’s habit betrayed her as her eyes quickly scanned the hall, assessing her surroundings. A niggling of intuition somewhere in the back of her mind made her pause in her ascent to the Jarl’s throne room. 

The feeling of dread bloomed.  There was a heavy presence here and she could feel the weight of it settle around her nerves like lead.  It was in the very air, thick and stifling.  She gently grasped the amulet at her throat in a nervous habit and hid behind one of the large, stone columns.  Sigrun stopped, her breath slowing instinctually to better listen.  All she could hear was the constant whir and chug of Dwemer machinery punctuated every so often by a release of hot steam.  She shook her head in frustration.

_Too loud._

Trying to pinpoint the source of her sudden anxiety, she closed her eyes, focusing, trying to pick up snippets of human activity beneath the din. Her grip, now white-knuckled on her amulet, searching for reassurance that all was okay.

Somewhere above her, a dog barked.  The echo loud and disruptive.  _Hungry._

Trusting in her gift, she honed in, centering on her surroundings.  There were a few hushed voices whispering about the Hall of the Dead, a woman’s rough laughing, someone sighing in exasperation and following shortly after, stiffly patrolling footsteps.  She peered outward from the column and looked up toward the staircase.  Nothing, save a few guards. 

_And yet…_

Her brow furrowed, the feeling would not subside.  Something out of the corner of her eye flashed and her skin pricked with the sudden awareness. 

The whole place was dank and dark with the exception of a few dimly lit Dwemer lamps.  Another curious flash caught her gaze.  This time, Sigrun’s eyes chased the shards of pale yellow rainbows dancing along the walls.  Those silvery orbs narrowed and pinned the source of the reflections to a pair of tall elves wearing exquisitely polished golden-hued armor.  The suffocating sensation threatened to swallow her as her gazed locked on the mage between them.  Her lips curled in disgust.  Thalmor.


	2. The Heretic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At this point, Ondolemar had to stop himself from reaching for her again as his thoughts were turning lustful and that simply would not do. He restrained himself and stood poised before her. Their eyes locking and lingering for far too long than either one of them would have liked to admit. Sigrun, in an act of pure defiance reached inside of her bodice, Ondolemar’s eyes following her movements all too willingly, and pulled out her amulet. It hung proud in its insolence, shining obnoxiously against the white skin of her breasts.

The feeling of being watched made Ondolemar pause mid-stride.  His men stopped beside him, immediately on alert.  He looked over his shoulder, eyes scanning the room for the source of his disquiet and eventually came to rest on the shadowy hooded figure slowly climbing the steps to the throne room.  He could not clearly see her face as it was mostly obscured by that dark fur cowl she wore but he could sense she was watching him closely.   
  
It was an odd feeling knowing a person was watching you but unable to see their eyes to confirm if your suspicions were accurate.  He turned to face her, his guards at either side poised and ready.  She stopped her ascent, faced him and cocked her head curiously but she did not speak.  His trepidation grew, this would not be the first attempt on his life but he certainly had never met one quite this bold.

Ondolemar, refusing to be intimidated, rose to his full height and held his chin up in pride, with one finely arched eyebrow up in an unspoken question.  His sneering expression did nothing to sway the mystery woman to speak.  When she did not, he took a step towards her, his voice calling out cold and clear, “If you have something you wish to say, I suggest you do so.”

A sultry chuckle, followed by a sigh was all he received in response.  She turned away and made to turn back towards the steps to Igmund’s throne.

Ondolemar was not sure whether to be angry or shocked at her response.  He had clearly failed in his intimidation attempt.  He was not used to being dismissed so easily and for some unknown reason, he refused to allow this woman to escape without knowing who she was or what she wanted.  Perhaps it was fate that guided his actions, we may never know.  But for himself, it was in his nature to inquire and actually it was his _job_ to do so.  Satisfied with this self-justification and despite one of his men cautioning him against it, he quickly made his way over to her and grabbed her arm. 

The girl gasped and whirled to face him.  Enraged silver eyes met green in a clash as she glared up at him but refused to speak. Her stare would have withered a lesser man where he stood, in this case, it only served as a reason for Ondolemar to tighten his grip.

“Who sent you?!” He hissed.  She tried yanking her arm from his steely grip but only succeeded in getting him to pull her closer against him.  She reached up with her free hand and tore her cowl back to meet his eyes without obstruction.

Ondolemar’s breath caught in his throat as he stared down at the irate woman struggling to free herself.

She was utterly stunning. His eyes passed over her, drinking in every detail. He was desperately willing himself to look away but he found himself unable to even try.  His attraction to her was surprising and instantaneous. She was unlike anything or anyone he’d seen before.  There was no equivalent. He had access to and had the pleasure of some of the most beautiful, noble women of Summerset and Valenwood and yet this ragged Nord girl with her dirt smudged face, sloppy furs, and fraying cloak had far surpassed them all.

Her pale gray eyes were nearly snapping with anger but it only managed to make her more beautiful as she struggled against him.  He pulled her closer, towering over her. Her lips were slightly parted, full and pink. Though it was almost hard to tell underneath the blue and purple war paint, her skin was pale and clear, with only a scant trace of light freckles across her nose.  The only true mar was a long white scar along her jaw.  It gave her an almost feral look and he wanted nothing more, at that moment, than to trace it gently with his fingers and study her more closely.  She had long silvery blond hair. The color, while common amongst Altmer, was unique for a human.  It hung down in two heavy, long plaits that fell well below her full breasts. And there his eyes came to rest, breasts perfectly rounded and begging for release from the tight fur bodice of her armor.

Ondolemar was immobilized. He was afraid that if he moved, he may lose the tenuous grasp of self-control he was barely maintaining and crush her to him. His urges were so strong and primal it felt as if he had been put under a spell.  The feeling was unfamiliar territory and for the first time in many, many years, he was unsure of himself.

Sigrun watched his reaction to her curiously and she could not deny the pleasurable sensation that she felt when she saw an all too familiar light in his eyes. Though it was fleeting, it gave her the advantage she needed.  She tore her arm out from his grasp and stood staring at him, breathless, waiting for an apology she was never going to get.

At this point, Ondolemar had to stop himself from reaching for her again as his thoughts were turning lustful and that simply would not do.  He restrained himself and stood poised before her.  Their eyes locking and lingering for far too long than either one of them would have liked to admit. Sigrun, in an act of pure defiance reached inside of her bodice, Ondolemar’s eyes following her movements all too willingly, and pulled out her amulet.  It hung proud in its insolence, shining obnoxiously against the white skin of her breasts.

His eyes flared and snapped back up to meet hers. She knew immediately what he was thinking and cocked her head to the side in challenge, eyes narrowing, daring him to say something.  
  
Her obvious display of continued defiance only inflamed his anger at the entire situation.  It was clear he did not intimidate this woman and that was, to his surprise, an incredibly exciting feeling.  He immediately squashed the fire igniting inside of him; disgusted by his own base reaction.   
  
Before he could question her, she pushed passed him and continued her approach to the Jarl.  Ondolemar continued to watch her until she disappeared from view.  
  
“Sir?” One of his guards awaited orders; his pale golden blade drawn.

“No. Let her go.” He said dismissively, waving the mer down.  
  
The two men behind him exchanged hesitant glances but obeyed nonetheless. Ondolemar righted his robes and looked around to make sure no one, other than his own men, had seen the awkward exchange.

Scowling miserably, Ondolemar dismissed his guards for a quick break and followed her to the throne room. Noting the absence of the Jarl, he did not hesitate to use his position to his advantage. 

“Who was that woman?” Ondolemar demanded of Raerek.  
  
“Well, I can’t say. You will have to discuss that with the Jarl himself.”  The old Nord folded his arms across his chest and shifted uncomfortably under the elf’s questioning glare.  “I only know that she came bearing a message from Ulfric Stormcloak.”

Ondolemar leaned forward, using his height to his advantage and leveled the man with a cold gaze. “I demand _your nephew_ place that woman under arrest for Talos worship.  Markarth has an obligation to do so, as you well know.”

Raerek trembled and lowered his eyes in shame of his fear.  “I will speak to Igmund when he returns.”

Ondolemar took a step back, satisfied. He straightened and was met with Faleen’s dagger eyes.  He smiled at them both smugly, “Good, we understand each other then.”  
\------  
Ondolemar snorted in derision. “Truly, you cannot be serious.”

Jarl Igmund sat up, offended at the elf’s dismissal of his claims.  “You know nothing of our legends and you know nothing of how Nords war.”  He lifted his tankard and drained it without pausing. 

The elf’s eyes passed over Igmund in boredom and mild disgust.  “Of course not.  I make it a point to educate myself on subjects of interest.”

Igmund nearly spluttered his ale everywhere but Ondolemar continued before the man could address the insult, “And to be perfectly candid with you, _Jarl_ , I do not care what your customs are or the particulars therein.  I am here to enforce the treaty your Emperor signed with the Dominion.  That is my _only_ concern.”

“You do not know what you are asking me to do.  We may as well send Ulfric an invitation to lay siege on this city.”  Igmund paused momentarily, debating whether or not his next statement was wise, “I doubt they would be as accommodating to the Thalmor as I have been.”  

The meaning behind his words was not lost on Ondolemar.  The commander set his wine glass down and stared hard at Igmund.  “We have been more than patient with Markarth.  The Talos shrine is still intact, you will not permit us to investigate the old Skald and now you refuse to arrest a confirmed worshipper of Talos. I grow tired of playing at politics with you, Jarl.  You will allow us to do what needs to be done here or you will face the consequences.” He stood up and his guards rose with him; both men at immediate attention.  Ondolemar glowered down at Igmund, “If you think Ulfric is your only threat, then you are more naïve than I originally took you for.  But mark me well, you will abide by your obligation or we will not hesitate to level this wretched city.”

Ondolemar did not give the Jarl any time to respond.  He left the dining hall in stunned silence.


	3. Search and Seizure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And if she wasn’t so desperate for money… she would have told the Jarl to shove his shield right up his entitled arse. Knowing now that she had probably been set up, Sigrun was once again a prisoner and at the mercy of another. Someday, she would learn to stop trusting politicians.

It was very late and the keep was eerily quiet. Ondolemar slammed his book shut and rubbed his eyes in frustration.  He was beyond exhausted but sleep had been elusive to him of late.  Sighing in exasperation, he reached for his decanter and began to pour himself a glass of brandy in hopes it would help him rest. 

He had just closed his eyes in appreciation of its spicy warmth when a loud commotion from just outside his door startled him into nearly dropping his glass. 

He quickly shrugged back into his over-robe and pulled up his hood as loud knocking resounded upon his door.  It would simply not do for him to be seen in a state of _undress_. 

Upon opening his door, he was greeted with the sight of an extremely irate Nord woman being bound by his guards. 

His eyes passed coolly over her, “Ah, the heretic.” 

Sigrun stared hard at him as she was shoved rudely into his chambers and manhandled toward the far wall.  Ondolemar noticed that she wasn’t giving them much of a fight as they shackled her wrists above her head and forced her into a kneeling position.  It struck him as odd considering that she had appeared to be fighting them much of the way to his room.   He had learned long ago to trust his observational abilities.

“Did you confiscate the amulet or any other incriminating paraphernalia?”  He inquired, looking between the two young elves standing before him before returning to peruse the papers in his hands.

Both were hesitant to respond.  The noble looking blue-eyed one spoke first, knowing that the delayed response was likely to incur more wrath than just stating the facts.  He swallowed thickly, “No, Commander.  We thoroughly searched her room, sir.  We found nothing.”

“We also searched the entire inn.  There was no corner untouched, I assure you.  The proprietor is most displeased and claims he will send you a bill for any damages incurred.  I told him to bugger off and to send it to the Jarl instead.”  The young Altmer paused momentarily, trying to gauge his Commander’s reaction.  “We can return to search again, if that is what you wish, my lord.”

Ondolemar, still busy flipping through their report, finally responded without looking up and waved them off, “No, that won’t be necessary.” 

After they left, he sat down at his desk and busied himself with writing notes in his ledgers.  The room was still and quiet, except for the occasional scratching of his quill on parchment.  The elf was fully dressed in his uniform and appeared to have forgotten she was even there, so engrossed in his work as he was.  Sigrun felt that she may as well be a chair or a desk lamp for as much attention as he paid her.  Several hours passed and she felt on the verge of sleep but her position prevented her from getting comfortable enough.

From her vantage point, Sigrun took the time to watch the elf more closely. It was not often she had been able to observe an Altmer, let alone a member of the Thalmor, in such an intimate setting.  Since he was an Elf, it was hard for her to place his age.  He looked relatively young but there were a few fine lines of maturity around his mouth and eyes that gave him an air of sophistication.  If she was guessing, she would suppose he was roughly the equivalent of a human man in his mid-30’s.

His face, though mostly obscured by his hood, was severely handsome and fine boned. His skin was smooth and toned in a deep, rich golden hue.  His mouth was full without being feminine but twisted downward in as if in a state of perpetual unhappiness. There was no denying he was physically magnificent with his broad shoulders and tall stature but before she could devolve further into girlish fancies, Sigrun shook the delirium from her mind.

 _Damn Forsworn and their poison arrows_. 

Feeling the weight of her gaze, Ondolemar finally deigned to look up from his books.  He wasn’t sure what it was but something within his chest quickened when her eyes captured his and remained.  He cleared his throat and rose to stand before her.

“I trust you are relatively comfortable?”  He queried.

Sigrun shifted on her knees.  She still felt the ache from the arrow in her shoulder earlier and having her arms bound above her wasn’t helping.  Lifting her chin in defiance, she knew she would rather die than let this filthy Thalmor scum know he had succeeded in making her uncomfortable.

If the Jarl hadn’t offered her such a hefty purse to retrieve his shield, she would probably be half way home by now.

 _And if she wasn’t so desperate for money… she would have told the Jarl to shove his shield right up his entitled arse._ Knowing now that she had probably been set up, Sigrun was once again a prisoner and at the mercy of another.  Someday, she would learn to stop trusting politicians.

“I admit you’ve roused my curiosity… Sigrun… is it?”  At the sound of her name, her silver eyes snapped back up to his in surprise, confirming his information.  He answered her unspoken question: “I make it my duty to know who comes and goes in this city.  Now will you behave if I choose to be merciful and unshackle you?”

She nodded her head.  He reached above her, the fabric of his robes brushing her hair.  He helped her to her feet and though his face was impassive, she saw he was studying her closely. 

A bruised purpled her throat and the lower right of her jaw. Her war-paint was smeared and half missing, the skin of her face streaked with dirt.  Blood spatter stained her furs and her boots were caked with mud.  Her pale braids had become messed and the straggling curls framed her face.  She was filthy, bloody, and tired.  A trace of repugnance passed over his features.  She was not often in such a state of disarray.  Standing next to an example of meticulous grooming such as himself, Sigrun felt all the worse for her appearance. 

Ondolemar was indeed disgusted, though her perception of the cause was off.  She was still beautiful by anyone’s standards and Ondolemar, against his will, felt himself warming as he touched his gloved hand to her chin and tipped her face up.  Her lashes fluttered down and her face began to turn rosy under his close scrutiny.   Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, the thought of pressing his lips to hers began to slowly take hold until it became an overpowering sensation.  The more he fought it off, the more intense it became. 

“Did my Justiciars do this to you?”  He asked, turning her face to see the dark bruise more clearly in the candlelight.

“No.”  She whispered. 

“Good.” 

He was so close that Sigrun could smell a mild hint of his cologne and feel the warmth emanating from his body.  She rubbed at her raw wrists in state of self-consciousness and waited for him to speak again.  It was several minutes before he did so.

“I find myself wondering at the wisdom of one who purposely flaunts their heresy in front of a member of the Thalmor.”  His tone held no emotion and Sigrun found herself struggling to discern his intentions.  She was expecting something far more brutish.

“I did not put that much thought into it.”  Ondolemar felt his body ignite at the sound of her voice. It was velvety, feminine and clear with a slight Nordic lilt. 

“Clearly.”  He stepped back from her so suddenly she flinched.  Suddenly, her trepidation grew as she realized she was utterly at his mercy and if he chose to hurt her, there was no stopping him. Though she was fairly tall herself, he still towered over her and appeared to outweigh her by several stone.

Seeming to have read her thoughts, he sighed , “I’ve no intentions of actually harming you. I merely wish to question you.”  His assurance did little to allay her fears.

Sigrun made no effort to hide her anger at the situation. “You have no proof to keep me imprisoned.”  She said hoarsely.  “I demand you let me go, elf!”

Ondolemar was struggling to maintain his self-control as it was and the venom with which she spoke pushed his frustration over the edge into rage.  He was absolutely horrified at the direction his thoughts kept taking in her company and more-so, his obvious inability to control them.

Within two strides, he was back next to her.  "Maybe I should rethink my initial stance about not harming you. Would you like that?" He grabbed her jaw and held it cruelly in his leather-clad fist; resenting her for the battle raging inside of him.  “Do not make me regret being kind to you because I will not hesitate to chain you back up like the animal you are, _Nord_.”  He spat the last word like it was curse. Sigrun's eyes narrowed, she was trying to keep her fear from reflecting in them and giving him the satisfaction of knowing he made her nervous. 

When she refused to cow to him, his fingers tightened until she winced. When he next spoke, his voice was full of malice, “Did you think you could just taunt me and not answer for it?”

Whether that statement was made regarding the amulet or for the fact he wanted her, was open for debate.  Sigrun refused to answer, she set her jaw and focused her eyes over his shoulder, staring straight ahead. He let her go so roughly, she stumbled backward. 

He fussed over his reports again, made a few notes and headed for the door.  He flicked his wrist casually and she found herself pinned to the wall.  “I’ll have water brought up for bath.  I do realize that regular bathing is a foreign concept to your kind but I can no longer stand to look upon your filth or have your stench permeate my chambers.”  He smirked at her enraged gasp, “ The spell will wear off in a few moments and we’ll see about your cooperation when I return.” 


	4. Tempting Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was undeniably attracted to the Nord wench and when he was near her, she set his very blood aflame. With that said, it should be known that Thalmor Justiciars did not often “entertain” prisoners in their personal quarters. Actually, he could not think of a single case where it had ever occurred. Why he chose to make an exception this time was still unclear to him. Ondolemar was not often one to tempt fate.

“Please have the maids prepare a bath for the prisoner in my chambers.”  He requested upon reaching the servant’s kitchen.  When no one responded but only gawped at him in shock, he curled his lip and gave them a withering stare.  “Now.”  The Bretons scurried to obey, not wishing to arouse his ire further. 

Ondolemar had nowhere in particular to be, he just needed to get away and attempt to clear his head.   Sometimes, a walk was all he needed.  The cool air outside was refreshing and he found himself able to better focus within a few moments.

He was undeniably attracted to the Nord wench and when he was near her, she set his very blood aflame. With that said, it should be known that Thalmor Justiciars did not often “entertain” prisoners in their personal quarters.  Actually, he could not think of a single case where it had ever occurred. Why _he_ chose to make an exception this time was still unclear to him. Ondolemar was not often one to tempt fate.

He should have had her sent to Northwatch instead but there was a part of him that had to see if this was something he could overcome.  One of his justifications for keeping her chained in his room, was that the Jarl had requested he use a light touch with Sigrun for reasons he still thought ludicrous. 

_Dragonborn.  Hmph._

The impossibility of the situation nearly made him laugh if it wasn’t so utterly pathetic. 

As he continued his walk, he mentally berated himself for his weakness.  There must be some hidden flaw in his genetic makeup. 

 _Surely something must have gone severely awry for this to happen again.  There could be no other explanation._  

The shame he felt for lusting over a human was palpable.  And by the eight, a human allied with the Stormcloaks?  Was this a cruel revenge exacted by an offended God?  Or some form of Daedric trickery?  Ever the pragmatist, Ondolemar did not actually believe either of those things possible. At the same time, he could not deny that it was completely out character for him to be unable to put the woman from his mind.

 _Members of the Thalmor did not covet relations with humans_.  It simply was not done or allowed.  They had always been told it was a matter of “cultural preservation”.  As far as he knew, the instances of it happening were few and far between.

As with his other colleagues, he had literally spent decades learning the discipline of absolute self-control and awareness.  Everything he had done in his life prior to this point had been precisely planned and had been executed with purpose.  There was little room for spontaneity when one joined the ranks of the Thalmor.

One thing that was not well known amongst other races, was that all active Justiciars were required to take a vow of celibacy once promoted; even if they were previously married. While in service, they were not allowed sexual or romantic relations. You needed to forsake it all for the cause. When and _IF_ you were released from duty, you were free to resume your old life… if it still existed. 

As far as Ondolemar could recall, the measure against sex and romance was taken to prevent “distractions” while on active duty.  For as long as most Altmer lived, it was never much of an issue for them to choose to go for several years, perhaps a decade or two, without much in the way of physical contact.

All of them lived alone or if of a low rank, had to bunk impersonally with other soldiers. Joining the Thalmor was a lonely existence, for it was not just a commitment of one’s time but one’s soul as well.  Relationships within the Thalmor were nothing more than a series of obligatory connections between acquaintances with a similar, singular goal.  Now tack on several years or decades of living this way and you have some very bitter elves with very distant memories of what it’s like to give affection, let alone have it returned.

All of this was done voluntarily, however, and it took upwards of ten to twenty years to prepare for such a life and all of them knew the rigors long before being put into active service.  It is not a life for even your average Altmer and the Dominion wanted to ensure they had only those most committed. Ondolemar had never seen anything wrong with their restrictions. In fact, he often agreed with the policies and actively enforced them amongst his own subordinates.  That was, of course, until today.

Even if this oath did not exist, courting a human was not something that was looked upon favorably even amongst the noble families of Summerset.  It was considered “slumming” if you bedded down with anyone other than another Altmer. As a member of a Thalmor, he’d be charged with treason and executed without further thought.  The “re-education” methods were proven ineffective in such circumstances. He’d seen it happen a few times over the last several decades and it always ended tragically. It was either by the axe or by their own hand.  

Ondolemar knew that while they were far better at outlasting most and despite declarations of superiority, members of the Thalmor were not completely immune to the ravages of loneliness. The years had a way of wearing on everyone eventually, mer or man and absolutely no good could come of keeping this woman in close proximity.

After spending an inordinate amount of time thinking on the situation, he made the decision to send Sigrun to Northwatch for further questioning.  He felt his exhaustion keenly and suddenly. Walking for two hours around a city would do that for most people and he resigned himself to the fact that he needed sleep as much as anyone else.  Determined to put 'the Nord' from his mind, he made his way back to his apartment in hopes of resting for a few hours.

\-------

Upon opening the door, the decision he had just made to send Sigrun to Northwatch simply ceased to exist as if it had never occurred to him to begin with.

One of this guards must have returned to his room at some point as she was back in chains and resting semi-comfortably on her knees. Her pale hair was down and hung dripping over one slender shoulder. She was dressed in a large, cotton tunic that could barely be considered serviceable, let alone modest. It was probably the only appropriate piece of clothing his men could find on short notice and it left very little to the imagination.  Her face was bare of any paint or dirt and if he thought she was stunning before; she was _absolutely captivating_ now.  He swallowed hard, a deep sweet ache within his chest bloomed until he found it hard to breathe.  Not even Auri'El herself could have made Ondolemar look away from her in that moment.

Sigrun had looked up at the sound of the door opening.  The tall elf walked in and upon seeing her, stopped mid-stride.  Though his expression was stoic, something in his eyes betrayed him.  What it was, she could not say.

Sigrun, not having a whole lot experience where elves were concerned, misread the look as one of displeasure and looked away. 

When he finally made his way over to her, he removed her chains and yanked her to her feet.  Fear rounded her eyes as he gazed down at her. 

_Perhaps he planned to make good on his threats after all._

His eyes held hers’ prisoner and darkened into a deep flinty emerald. She was prepared for the worst.  What he did next, was not the scenario she envisioned happening. 

 Instinctually, his eyes dropped lazily to her mouth and he ran a gloved thumb over the swell of her bottom lip. Sigrun's breath came out in small, rapid bursts; her eyes never leaving his face. He pulled her against him and she knew what was coming next. She had seen that look before.  She recoiled in disgust and pulled back, pushing at his chest and tried her best to wriggle free of his arms. 

“Let me go!”  She demanded.  When he did not comply, she took in a deep breath and prepared to shout… And then his lips were on hers.  Sigrun made a small squeal of surprise in her throat as his mouth moved over hers hungrily.   It all happened too fast for her to process.

She used every ounce of her being to avoid succumbing to the Altmer’s heady kiss. It was harder than she expected. He was attractive, demanding and entirely too intoxicating to deny.  His lips played roughly against hers, practically begging for the response she would not give.  He made a desperate sound in his throat as he pulled her even closer and she felt her body press against his warmth.  The soft fabric of his robes molding against the exposed areas of her skin felt divine.

Though she tried to ignore the sensations he was involuntarily rousing from her, Sigrun’s body began to ache with desire and her thoughts became cloudy as she allowed his tongue to enter her mouth.  His kiss was insistent as if trying to coax something from her. 

He reached up and tangled one hand in her wet hair while the other slid down over her hip and dug into the round curve of her buttock.  He gave a deep masculine growl as he left her mouth to press fevered kisses along the column of throat. She felt the scraping of his beard against her sensitive flesh and all else was forgotten. Hot puffs of breath bloomed against her skin as his lips and teeth moved lower to lick and nip at her collarbone. That was the final battle lost.  Sigrun felt a surge of heat within her loins as her traitorous body responded to his advances. He kissed her with such intensity, she became breathless and she found herself begging for more. She sighed and arched against him.  Instead of pushing away, her fingers tangled in the fabric of his robe, her grip white-knuckled.

A voice in the back of her mind was whispering incoherently; her thoughts were too thick and heavy to comprehend it at first. The voice grew clearer until she could ignore it no longer. _Stop this madness now._

Clarity was quickly returning and the room around them seemed to come back into focus. Sigrun steeled what was left of her resolve.  The thought of what her father had endured at the hands of others like this filthy Thalmor was enough to completely break the spell. She shuddered at the thought; her body grew cold. She wrenched her lips away and shoved Ondolemar with all her might, her willpower renewed. He didn’t move. She glared up at him, hatred burning in her eyes.  He said nothing- his eyes were dark and flinty. When he moved, he only attempted to kiss her again.

Sigrun felt nothing but rage and through gritted teeth she warned him. “Get off me!” And before he could sweep her back up in his embrace, she reached up and slapped him. The sound echoed sickeningly in the empty room. Her eyes widened with the realization of what she had just done.

Ondolemar stepped back in astonishment. He wiped the back of his gloved hand across his mouth, testing for blood. The left side of his face was still smarting with pain when lowered his hand and just stared at her, an ever so slight tic in his jaw betrayed his otherwise impassive reaction.  
Sigrun was overcome by fear as she saw the heat in his eyes replaced with unbridled rage. He seemed to fighting some internal battle and the rage was gone as quickly as it came and in its stead was an icy coldness.  Dread settled like a rock in her stomach.  She knew danger well and literally every fiber of her being was telling her to flee immediately.

“Leave.” 

She never knew one word could be so terrifying. It was spoken without emotion and she literally trembled at the sound of his voice.  She wasted no time in gathering her things and as she ran from his room, she looked over her shoulder to make sure he wasn’t following her.

The Thalmor Commander had retreated to his bedroom without so much as a backward glance in her direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love romance and the movies that often go along with it. Sooo... with that said, Ondolemar falling in love with Sigrun was very loosely inspired by this scene. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RIEryklWT6M


	5. A Thief Never Tells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He gave a soft laugh and smiled back at her. It was only a momentary lapse in the persona he worked hard to maintain but the effect on Sigrun was lasting. His teeth were straight and white and shone brilliantly against the summer gold of his skin. The genuine amusement shining in his green eyes made her heart beat heavily, however fleeting.
> 
> “Smiling suits you.” She whispered, without fully realizing she said it aloud.
> 
> Ondolemar stiffened at her inadvertent compliment. It was only three words but he was galvanized. The temptation to sweep her away and take her back to his quarters and make his fantasies a reality was overpowering his very ability to maintain himself.

Jarl Igmund could feel the chill settle into his bones as her icy gray eyes fixed on him beneath her hood.  “I apologize for the misunderstanding. My hands were tied.  Now if you please, I have a city to run.”   He tried acting dismissive, as if her presence couldn’t possibly bother him.

Sigrun saw through the façade and remained unmoved.  “Is that so?”  The Jarl visibly stiffened at the coldness of her tone. 

Igmund shook his head and splayed his hands in pleading, “You were to be questioned, not arrested.  You know I have no control over their methods.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a thick copper chain, the bronzed symbol of Talos swinging back and forth like a pendulum. “I see. I suppose the same rules apply to your beloved Skald then?”  The man went visibly pale as she dangled the much sought after amulet from her forefinger.  “Next time you think to manipulate me into being your puppet, remember who you are dealing with.” 

“You wouldn’t- “

Sigrun cut him off and when she spoke, her words were low and void of all emotion.  “Yes, I would.  You see, Jarl, the Stormcloaks have no vested interest in the politics of this city as it currently stands.  Any nord who does not stand for what they believe in doesn’t hold much credibility with the rightful High King.  _When_ Ulfric takes it, Ogmund will be freed, naturally, and his loyalty rewarded. Our supporters here will rally once again… and the foul scum that you allow to use you so carelessly, will not live to see another day.”  A hesitation formed in the back of her mind even as the words left her mouth.  Though she would be loathe to admit it, Sigrun was not able to easily shake the feelings the Thalmor’s kiss had invoked. 

\-------

_With one deft movement, the flimsy hide ties that held her bodice together came apart. The lush fullness that had so often tempted his eyes, spilled free into view.  He pulls her into a languid kiss, savoring the sweet honey of her lips; his hands travel slowly downward over soft, supple curves-_

“Commander Ondolemar!  Sir!”  The youngest of his two guards, Qworyn, came charging into his office.  The Altmer was breathless and wide eyed; excitement evident in his every word.

“Auri’el preserve me! What now?!”  Ondolemar snapped, none too happy about having his daydreams interrupted for the fourth time that evening.

“The old Skald, Ogmir… uh Ogmund?  Onmund?  His amulet of Talos has been discovered.  We finally have the evidence to arrest him but the Jarl is demanding you serve him the official papers.”  Ondolemar rose from his desk to stare out the window, “He wanted me to specify that he wants it in writing from the First Emissary herself.  ‘ _For his records’_ , so he claims.  It’s obviously a ruse to allow the man enough time to escape.”

He turned back to his guard and scoffed, “Igmund is _demanding_?  Hmph.”  Ondolemar rifled through his papers, “You have my authority to proceed anyway.”

The elf shifted back and forth, the leather of his boots squeaking with each movement, obviously waiting for an invitation to speak again.  Ondolemar rolled his eyes and in an exasperated tone: “I can _hear_ you thinking, Qworyn.  If you have something to say, say it.”

“I know it is not my place to advise you, my lord, but if I may speak plainly?”  At Ondolemar’s affirmative nod, the mer continued, “It is a matter of politics and I would not provoke the Jarl this time, sir.  There is a rumor that the old man is planning to flee the city by nightfall and there is no reason why that would not be true.  We have always suspected that Igmund’s hesitation with regards to the bard was personal.  He’s all but confirmed it now.” 

Qworyn paused and with a subtle hint of mockery in his voice, “You should be aware Commander, _Jarl Igmund_ feels and I quote, ‘no obligation’, to keep him detained here should the Nord have the inclination to leave.”

“And I have _‘no obligation’_ to respect his ‘requests’.”

“True, however, the Jarl’s men will likely turn a blind eye. As you well know, the old man is somewhat of a celebrated figure among them.”

Ondolemar brushed him off impatiently, “Yes, yes, I know.  If we arrest him on our own without the Jarl’s approval, the rotten old bastard becomes a martyr.”

 “Of course you knew that, Commander.  I did not mean to presume otherwise.  It’s just that Igmund refuses responsibility should his men or the town rally behind the bard or worse, help him evade our capture.” 

Ondolemar chuckled, “I appreciate your concern, Qworyn, _but I am always prepared_. The Jarl is a fool if he thinks to outwit _me_.”  He smiled in satisfaction as he pulled out the necessary papers, “Igmund knows we need the Embassy’s consent for official arrests. However, what he does not know, was that I had already predicted his reaction and requested the documents required not long after I arrived here; should the occasion to arrest Ogmund present itself.” 

The prospect of finally being able to apprehend the old bard was long overdue. Ondolemar wasted no time and began walking briskly to the Mournful Throne, Qworyn tailing close behind.  “Where is the old man now?”

“At home.  Lorundil is standing guard at his door to ensure the man doesn’t try to flee.”

“Excellent, I will _hand deliver_ the warrant to the Jarl myself.  Go and make sure the rest of city is secure.  I have been waiting for this day for far too long to let it slip from my grasp on a technicality.”

Up until today, the old Nord had always seemed one step ahead of Ondolemar.  For the last three years, it had been a fruitless chase for all of his efforts.

Ogmund was a well loved and respected leader within the Nord community in Markarth.  Ondolemar had known the man was an apostate and he had also long suspected he was also guilty of aggravated sedition and organizing the worship of Talos in secret. Arresting him was going to deal a serious blow to any Stormcloak sympathizers in the city.  Ondolemar had become bitterly resentful at having been foiled multiple times by the old man and the pursuit to root him out had become a personal endeavor. 

He was never able to convince the Jarl to sanction and all out investigation and the Skald was one of the main reasons he was still stationed in this moldering stone plane of Oblivion .  Perhaps now, he could finally petition for reassignment.

From the shadows, a silky voice spoke, interrupting his momentum. As he paused he felt his spine tingling with every word, “Hmmm, if I were on my way to see the Jarl claiming evidence of Talos worship, I would make sure I have the evidence in hand this time.  Wouldn’t want to make a fool of myself twice in the span of a week.” 

Ondolemar scowled, turning toward the voice.  There _she_ was cloaked in darkness, arms crossed, her back against the stone wall, one ankle crossed over the other.  His blood quickened and every fiber of his being seemed to come alive in her presence.

_Auri’el have mercy on me..._

Ondolemar successfully suppressed an involuntary shiver as she strolled casually towards him, the flames of a nearby torch flickering wildly as she drew closer, the dusk colored light chasing away her shroud.

“For a rather unpopular person in this city, you have made a bad habit out of walking alone lately.  I could have easily slit your throat.”  She smirked at him, reassuring him she meant no harm.

“What is it you want, nord?” 

 “I don’t _want_ anything.” She said as she suspended the amulet from her fingers.

Sigrun gestured for him to take it but he remained suspicious.  He only stood glowering at her, eyes peering down his nose, one eyebrow raised, lips downturned in antipathy. 

Sigrun purposely closed the distance between them, tantalizing him with her scent.  Warm leather, some kind of vanilla flower and… something uniquely her. Gods be damned, he wanted her again.  

She laughed at him and teased playfully, “Don’t trust me?”

“No.”

She looked up at him and tutted at him like he was child.  When she took his gloved hand, he initially flinched, but to his relief, she only placed the amulet in his palm. “I suppose I wouldn’t either, were I in your position. Take it.  I’m teaching your Jarl a valuable lesson.” 

Perhaps it was in an Altmer’s general nature but experiences had taught him to be wary of anyone willingly offering help without compensation; ulterior motives were often at play.  His eyes narrowed in doubt, seeking affirmation of the truth in her words. 

“You know, making a career of interrogating people provides one with certain advantages in daily interactions, such as allowing one to easily discern between fabrications and veracity.”  Sigrun did not miss the throaty catch in his voice.

“I’m not doing it out of the kindness of my heart.  If you’re so inclined, I’ll tell you.  I hold everything your ‘organization’ stands for in contempt, but I find that I dislike being manipulated far more.  There you have it.” 

He found her honesty refreshing and he found himself relaxing in her presence. It was an _\- odd-_ feeling for him.  “I can respect that. I suppose you’ll want compensation then?” He reached into his robes and pulled out a hefty coin purse.

“It’s not necessary but I’m not one to turn down payment when it’s offered.  However much I may disagree with the outcome, I did break the law to allow you to catch someone breaking the law.”

“True…?”  He raised a quizzical brow at her response.

Sigrun flashed him a wicked smile and put her hand up before he could ask, “A thief never tells.”

Ondolemar found himself enjoying her company despite her blatant disregard for the Thalmor.  That was to be expected, given her alliances… naturally.

He gave a soft chuckle and smiled back at her.  It was only a momentary lapse in the persona he worked hard to maintain but the effect on Sigrun was lasting.  His teeth were straight and white and shone brilliantly against the summer gold of his skin.  The genuine amusement shining in his green eyes made her heart beat heavily, however fleeting.

“Smiling suits you.”  She whispered, without fully realizing she said it aloud.

Ondolemar stiffened at her inadvertent compliment.  It was only three words but he was galvanized.  The temptation to sweep her away and take her back to his quarters and make his fantasies a reality was overpowering his very ability to maintain himself. 

_She does not even know what she does to me._

“Thank you.”  He sniffed haughtily and abruptly pulled back from her, pocketing the amulet.  Ondolemar crossed his arms over his chest and drew up his best defenses. He turned his thoughts to something, for him, more common and comfortable.

“I would also like to thank you on behalf of the Thalmor for your assistance.”

"Though I appreciate your sincerity, I didn't do it to assist the Thalmor. Make no mistake."

Though shaded by her cowl, he could see the smile still lingering in her eyes.  Sigrun gave him a small nod of acknowledgement before making her way slowly towards the steps. 

_What is this game she plays?_

Ondolemar was not going to look, everything in him told him to continue on his way to see Igmund and let it be but as fate would have it, he turned to watch her leave. He allowed himself the pleasure of watching the gentle sway of her hips as she walked, taking in every alluring detail of her curves.  He silently cursed himself as he walked after her, knowing nothing good was about to come of his next move but unable to stop himself.

Sigrun nearly shrieked in surprise when he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her roughly behind one of the large stone supports, out of sight.  He pushed her against it, pinning her against the cold stone and roughly yanked the fur cowl from her head and threw it to the side.  Ondolemar breathed heavily as he loomed threateningly over her. That subtle tic in his jaw was back as he planted his hands firmly at either side of her head.

He lowered his own head until his mouth was just above her ear, his breath tickling the fine curls of her hair. “Now,” he growled huskily, “I’d like to thank you _personally_.” Sigrun shivered as his words went straight to the spot between her legs. She sighed against his collar and closed her eyes.  “If you raise your hand to me this time, so help me Auri’El, I will take it.  Have I made myself clear, Nord?”    She eagerly nodded her head and this time she did not fight him when he forcefully pressed his lips against hers, his tongue invading her mouth. 

She slid her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, arching her body into his embrace.  Sigrun had not been able to stop thinking about their last kiss. Her attraction to the High Elf, though abhorrent and wrong for a myriad of sound reasons, was overwhelming.  She had been astounded by the passion bubbling just under the surface of his cold exterior and her curiosity longed push his boundaries and uncover more. She should have never delivered Ogmund's amulet herself.

Ondolemar was entranced. Her lips were too soft, her young body far too close and her ardent response was almost more than he could bear.  Ondolemar was growing painfully aroused and the primal male in him demanded he do more with her.  He pinioned her harder against the stone with his weight. Sigrun slid one sleek leg up over his hip and he lifted her with surprising strength.  He growled against her skin, teeth baring as he bit hungrily at her exposed throat. 

Any passersby would have been shocked to see a Thalmor Commander and a Stormcloak General in such a precarious position.  The thought of it only excited him further and somewhere in the back of his mind, he vaguely began to wonder at his own proclivities. He loosened the buttons of his breeches and tore at the fur armor around her hips, fully intending to take her right there against the column wall. He was about to loose the stays of her bodice but the light of a distant torch caught a faint glint of metal.  

Ondolemar halted abruptly, breath coming in short pants and drew back.

“You lie.”  He hissed, eyes full of cold fury.

Confusion furrowed her brow.  When she realized what he discovered, the color drained from her face. Her eyes searched his frantically.  She had not intended for any of this to happen.

“Please… I…”

He roughly pulled aside the rest of her cloak for a clearer view. Sigrun squeezed her eyes shut and the pounding of her heart nearly drowned out the noises from the room around them.  Despite his anger, his eyes fell eagerly to her half-clad breasts which rose and fell with the trembling of her breath.

Before Sigrun realized what was happening, he grabbed her throat, the leather of his gloves rough against the skin his lips had just ravaged. In one swift motion, with the other hand, the silver lariat of her own amulet snapped in two.  She gasped in shock when he released her. He held the glimmering chain before her eyes, clenching it tightly in his fist. 

He snarled down at her, “Whatever you think just transpired between us was entirely a misunderstanding.  A superiorly bred mer, such as myself, does not consort with humans, let alone vile _heretics_.” 

Ondolemar gave her a look of absolute revulsion, as if she was something foul served to him for lunch. Without another word, he stalked away.

Sigrun pressed quivering hands to her throat, where her father's amulet had been. She closed her eyes and tried to still her breath.  She was left stunned by his sudden change.  He knew with whom her alliances lay.   It took her several moments to recover but she did not look back when she walked quickly from the Keep.  This was far too dangerous a game, even for her.  This time, she was leaving Markarth for good.

\-----

Ondolemar slammed the door behind him and threw her amulet on his desk. He paced back and forth, staring hard at the shackles where she was once chained.  Had the amulet not pulled him back to reality, he would have fucked her against a stone column where anyone could’ve discovered them.  She was _a nord_.  It was beyond indecent now.  It was utterly depraved.

_Am I going mad?_

By the gods, he could still smell her, taste her, feel the imprint of her softly curving body pressing into his. He squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught of the memory.  It had been far too long since he’d last had a woman but he knew, deep down, that wasn’t the only reason he wanted her.

The kiss they had shared had not eased his interest or abated his desire. It had only succeeded in worsening everything. He tore angrily at his robes and frantically fumbled with his pants, trying to let loose his still throbbing erection.

Once free, he quickly relieved his pent up lust in a few swift strokes, gasping and leaning unceremoniously on his desk with one hand, the other around his cock.

His face burned crimson after his release.  
  
_So this is what it had come to…_    
  
A Mer of his impeccable lineage and background, releasing himself like a common degenerate who lacked any form of decorum or self-control. His shame was bitter.  
  
Ondolemar rose on shaky legs, trying to regain some of his familiar dignity and neatly tucked himself back away.  He re-buttoned his trousers and went about cleaning his mess as if nothing untoward had just occurred. He sat quietly at his desk, elbows resting on the arms of the chair, his fingertips meeting in a steeple just below the hook of his nose and lost himself in thought.

_This needs to end._

He could not go on living like this and _that girl_ showed no intentions of leaving the innermost recesses of his mind anytime soon. This was crossing from “distraction” into obsession and something needed to be done soon to quell the storm. 

________

Ondolemar had all but thrown the papers for Ogmund's arrest in the Jarl's face before threatening him with treason. He had neither the time nor inclination to deal with the nord's impertinence today. Once Igmund was safely cowed into a corner, he called for the bard's arrest and Ondolemar watched with smug superiority as the old man was hauled off to Northwatch Keep. 


	6. The Soul of a Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he was being perfectly honest, he had an even harder time when said “hero” was rumored to be the one he almost broke his vows with a few weeks ago. She hadn’t seemed very heroic… at least not while in his clutches. He tried mentally suppressing the images that recollection conjured and drank deeply from his wine glass.
> 
> Instead, Ondolemar chose to believe Elenwen’s theory that Ulfric Stormcloak had something to do with the appearance of that dragon at Helgen. It made perfect sense and was far too convenient to be anything else. The war was almost over, he was about to be executed, a dragon just happens to show up and he escapes; thus, continuing the war?
> 
> If that theory proved true and he saw no reason why it wouldn’t, he had to give the man credit, it was a clever way to try and chase the Dominion out of Skyrim. If there was one thing they were unprepared for, it was the return of the dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forewarning: This chapter is probably too long and the editing is terrible. I tried, really, I did. 
> 
> Also, Ondolemar basically partakes in the "magicka version" of porn here. Bear with me. 
> 
> ...I'm just going to go hide for awhile.

Snow swirled softly, slowly floating through the icy air before landing like so many hushed whispers; it blanketed the barren trees and hills around Eastmarch in startling white.  The city of Windhelm, the last great bastion of the Nords, loomed ancient and foreboding in the distance.

Sigrun and Valyn trudged through the thick snow, battered and tired from the miserable three weeks long journey they had endured.   “It isn’t much further now.”  Sigrun said with new determination, trying to rally her companions from their fatigue.

They had taken a carriage from Solitude to Whiterun and stopped at the occasional inn when they could.  But too many nights spent out in the cold with only a bedroll and meager tent to keep them warm, had not helped their flagging spirits.  Sigrun had insisted on not having a fire until they were well within the borders of Eastmarch, lest they be tracked.  It was a necessary precaution but it had only made the trek to Windhelm that much more uncomfortable.

Despite having spent the entirety of her life in Skyrim, Valyn was still not fond of the cold nor was she happy about sleeping out in the elements.   Her patience was drawn thin and her eagerness to return home was clearly evident.  With the goal in sight, the Dunmer charged forward through the forest, her armor clanging loudly, stirring the birds from their nests. 

Valyn glared angrily at the old Nord currently propping himself against a tree, wincing in pain, trying desperately to catch his breath.  “Hurry up old man!  I’d like to make it home by sundown.”  She snapped coldly.  Ogmund had found it hard to keep pace with his younger companions and had slowed their escape into Eastmarch exponentially. As was her way, Valyn had not been shy about letting him know it.

She wasn’t sure why Sigrun had insisted on saving the old man from his fate.  If he had chosen to worship Talos and rub it in the elves’ faces, then he got what he deserved.  Valyn was a mer who placed a high value on common sense and purposely provoking the Thalmor or any side within the Civil War for that matter, was just asking for trouble.  If she wasn’t so unfailingly loyal to the Erikssen family and Sigrun in particular, she would never have agreed to save the old fool. 

Just thinking of it now put her in a sour state.

The two women had waited almost three days for the Thalmor convoy transporting Ogmund to pass along the road leading to Northwatch Keep.  It was sheer luck that it happened to be nightfall as it allowed Sigrun to easily count the torch wielding guards to get a better idea of what they’d be up against.  She had expected more than four.  She wasn’t sure if it was arrogance or perhaps poor planning that lead to them making such a critical error. She suspected it was a little of both.  The haste with which they had dragged Ogmund out of Markarth was unprecedented and from her experience, they usually enjoyed making a show of it when they could.

When the wagon came lumbering noisily down the road, Sigrun had put an arrow through the driver’s eye with swift precision, causing the horse pulling the small carriage to panic.  The women had charged in, mounted, from the woods and ambushed the remaining guards.  The whole rescue hadn’t taken long but much to Valyn’s regret, their mounts had not survived the fray.  She thought back on their horses that lay rotting along a road somewhere just north of Dragon Bridge and would have seriously considered bartering with Molag Bal himself to have them back right about now.  No good deed goes unpunished, so it is said.

So here she was, traipsing through the woods with a wheezing old man who always seemed on the verge of collapse.

They had nearly reached the road when Sigrun motioned for her companions to stop.  She paused, listening, her hand hovering over her sword, at the ready.   Valyn, trailing close behind, stopped short, blood red eyes focused on her charge’s face.  Having known Sigrun her entire life, Valyn knew that when she saw those dark brows furrow in concentration, something was very amiss and the icy tendrils of dread began to creep into her veins.

Sigrun looked up warily, silver eyes scanning the trees, sensing it was far too quiet.  Not an animal stirred. The snowflakes around them almost seemed to hang still in the air, suspended in eternity, swirling on an endless path.  The sky had grown darker; ominous clouds churned from white to gray.

“Go take shelter.”  Her whisper was grim and brooked no argument. Sigrun met Valyn’s eyes and inclined her head, indicating for the Dunmer to take the old Skald with her.

Without uttering another word, Sigrun ran out into the clearing, leaving her companions behind to hide in safety, under the cover of trees.  For a moment, it seemed as if nothing was going to happen, everything was eerily still and then Valyn watched in wide-eyed horror as a great pair of sweeping wings seemed to materialize from the very icy vapor itself. 

A deafening shriek rent the silence like a blade through flesh.  Sigrun the Dragon Eater, unfazed, stood her ground; eyes trained with pitiless tenacity on the enormous, pale serpent above her.  When it unleashed its breath with the power of a hundred blizzards, she still remained steadfast, her shield absorbing the brunt of the torrent.  Never had she been more thankful for Valyn having insisted on its enchantment, then at that moment. 

Curiosity drove the dragon to have a closer look at the small, intrepid woman below.  Sigrun waited, her grip white knuckled on the hilt of her blade. She watched as it flew in close, hovering, it’s milky half-slit eye sizing her up. 

_“Wo los daar faasnu joor?”_

Sigrun wasn’t sure if it was offended or amused by her display.It was close enough now that she could see thick icicles that had formed on its teeth and around its maw.  It huffed at her, icy gales from its nostrils nearly knocking her off balance.  She recovered and focused eyes the color of cold steel on the flying fiend; Sigrun clenched her jaw and drew her sword in challenge. 

Recognition dawned on the beast and it laughed as if it were humoring a child.   _“Mu grind ahst laat, Dovahkiin…”_

\-----------

Nord legends were entirely too ridiculous have any validity.  Ondolemar brushed the entire conversation off as pure nonsense. Around an ornately decorated table laden with food, sat a dozen or so other Thalmor officers of varying degrees of importance.  He had a staggeringly successful month and they were enjoying a celebratory dinner in his honor at the Embassy and he was determined to keep the conversation and his mind from wandering towards Nords, _one in particular_.

Running a tongue over his teeth, Ondolemar sat down his wine glass and gave a contemptuous look to his colleague. “I will not waste valuable resources on something so… _juvenile_.” 

Rulindil _,_ the half-breed mongrel* only smiled. The black-eyed agent cut gingerly into his slaughterfish steak and undeterred from his point, he continued with an overly polite tone that made Ondolemar inwardly bristle: “With all due respect, I still think the matter bears an investigation, regardless of your personal sentiments, Commander.” 

Ondolemar waved him off with arrogant flick of his wrist.  “Your proposition is completely absurd.  My Justiciars are spread quite thin, _as you well know_ and you would suggest squandering them to chase down fairy tales?”  Ondolemar gave a condescending laugh, causing Rulindil’s mouth to twist into a venomous scowl.

“Perhaps it is beyond your capabilities as a mere _military_ _officer_ to understand the nature of politics and why something like this could prove useful or harmful, should it turn out to be true.  You were quite dismissive of the dragons too, if I recall correctly.”  

Ondolemar gave an exasperated sigh, “I suppose it’s asking too much to expect a mer who has gotten soft on the comforts of being a political attaché to understand how using our officers prudently affects our success here.”  He pointedly ignored Rulindil’s huff of annoyance, “The upper echelons of the Dominion would be less than pleased should they find out we are using our Justiciars for any other purpose than they are intended, which is to enforce the ban on Talos worship and bring the dissenters to justice.  Really, Rulindil, I feel as though I’m conversing with one of Tullius’s goons.  I should not have to explain the fundamentals of military procedure to you.”

Not wanting to be shown up, Rulindil leaned across the table and was nearly hissing when he spoke directly to Ondolemar, “Is that so?  Then perhaps we should tally up how many of our “valuable resources” have been devoured whole by dragons or captured by Stormcloaks because of your failure to use them... “prudently.”

Ondolemar’s words were spoken through gritted teeth: “For a mer who claims to be so well versed on the subject of diplomacy and _politeness_ , one might expect him to grasp rudimentary courtesies such as knowing what is appropriate table conversation and what is not.  Also provoking an argument with the guest of honor at his own dinner is considered to be… _savage_.” Rulindil did not miss the racial insult and began spluttering with barely contained rage. 

The rest of table grew silent as they fully expected the two wizards to incinerate each other on the spot.

“Enough!” First Emissary Elenwen interrupted, dousing the hum of magicka in the room.  “I can’t bear to listen to you two snipe at each other all evening.  My head is beginning to ache.” Elenwen’s eyes flared with impatience.

“Yes, my lady, of course.  I beg your pardon.” Rulindil bowed his head in apology, a disingenuous smile playing on his thin lips. 

“My apologies, madam.” Ondolemar said staring hard at Rulindil. The slimy bastard had a way of getting under Ondolemar’s skin like no other. 

Elenwen stopped rubbing her temples for a moment and looked up seeing several pairs of eyes were fixed on her.  She sighed and relented to their unspoken questions.  “Our Justiciars will not be tracking down this… ‘Dragonborn’ …unless they pose a direct threat to _us_.  Ondolemar is correct.  We must use our limited resources wisely.”  She straightened her back and with a confident smile, continued to address the table, “If you must know, I sent word to Alinor immediately after the disaster at Helgen requesting more reinforcements.  I received a letter this morning that they’re due to arrive in a week’s time.”

She tried to appear nonchalant but Ondolemar noticed when she cleared her throat her voice held a slight tremor.  “I do not care to get involved in this dragon business, but I don’t believe we have a choice.  If one happens to show up here, I’d like to be prepared.  Dragonborn or no.”  She motioned for everyone else to resume their meal, indicating that she would not be entertaining further questions on the matter. 

Ondolemar watched her through narrowed eyes, puzzling at whether to be amused or alarmed as she stuffed a large part of a dinner roll into her mouth and set to concentrating on her food in earnest.   Among her subordinates, it had recently become common knowledge that the subject of dragons set the Lady “on edge” and she had recently taken to the habit of eating excessively to ease her nerves.  For a woman whose general demeanor could freeze ice on the backside of a flame atronach, this small crack in her composure was fascinating to observe.

“Will one of you please be so kind as to change the subject to something more… pleasant?”  She asked, looking between Ondolemar and Rulindil.

Ondolemar was eager to take the bait, “How are your plans coming along for your upcoming soiree, my lady?”  The deep pits of Rulindil’s eyes fixed him with a hateful glower.  Ondolemar scoffed and dismissed him with a shrug of indifference, readily returning his attention back to their superior, who was too busy discussing the selection of wines she’d chosen for her party, to notice their exchange.

Though the dragons had proved to be a real threat, Ondolemar had a hard time reconciling that the soul of one could be born into a mortal.  It wasn’t that he dismissed the notion completely but as far as he knew, there had only been a few whispers amongst the locals about the legendary Nord hero.  A few empty threats were made by Talos worshippers half-crazed from torture; it was always something along the lines of the Dragonborn being their savior and would free them. Another was that the Dragonborn would come and end the elves and their reign of terror.  A lot of it was hard to take seriously.

If he was being perfectly honest, he had an even harder time when said “hero” was rumored to be the one he almost broke his vows with a few weeks ago.  She hadn’t seemed very heroic…  at least not while in his clutches.  He tried mentally suppressing the images _that_ recollection conjured and drank deeply from his wine glass.

Instead, Ondolemar chose to believe Elenwen’s theory that Ulfric Stormcloak had something to do with the appearance of that dragon at Helgen.  It made perfect sense and was far too convenient to be anything else.  The war was almost over, he was about to be executed, a dragon just happens to show up and he escapes; thus, continuing the war?

If that theory proved true and he saw no reason why it wouldn’t, he had to give the man credit, it was a clever way to try and chase the Dominion out of Skyrim.  If there was one thing they were unprepared for, it was the return of the dragons. 

\----------

Sigrun quickly crossed the bridge to Windhelm, Valyn and Ogmund in tow.  She held tightly onto Valyn, trying valiantly to best the pain shooting through her arm where the dragon had torn through her armor with razor-sharp claws.  Having walked the rest of the way from Shearpoint, she could stand no more as the blood from the exposed gash began to congeal and blacken in the evening air.

Valyn audibly gasped as a freezing wind picked up, the cold slicing through the gaps in her cloak like a thousand tiny razorblades.  She readjusted the hood over her head and held onto her friend, pulling her closer for warmth.  Sigrun was relieved to be home at long last.  It had been well over two months and she longed to see her friends and family. Between her duties as Dragonborn and Stormcloak officer, she was away far more often than she would have liked.

They made their way up to the main gate and Sigrun noticed that the crow cages hanging along the bridge seemed to have claimed new inhabitants since she was last home.  Ravens screeched and scattered, interrupted from their feasting as the trio approached the city guards for admittance.

Sigrun’s pale eyes drifted upward towards one of the more prominent cages just to the left of the main gate, where a particularly large group of birds had congregated.  The unfortunate resident must have been put there fairly recently for the crows to be in such a frenzy. Their ravenous shrieks sent chills up her spine. 

As they drew closer, she saw what was once a Thalmor wizard, frayed robes blowing gently in the frigid air, eye sockets hollowed and mouth grotesquely agape in death, lying slumped and half rotten against the iron bars.  She noticed with a small measure of alarm, that his hands were missing. It was the Nord way of stopping a mage, crude as it may be, it was effective.   A wave of revulsion threatened to upend the contents of her stomach as another raven landed on his hood, pecked hungrily at the decaying flesh of his face, let out a shrill squawk and flew off; the flapping of its wings disturbing her more than it should have.

Her eyes rested on those tattered robes and visions of the last Altmer she saw wearing them slowly crept in from her subconscious until she found herself vividly remembering their last encounter.  It was a morbid correlation but her mind was not her own of late. 

Those robes had haunted her dreams.  A tall wraith, shrouded in black, dogging her every step from the shadows until she could run no more.  A breathless gasp and then she would cry in terror as he pulled her towards him… _towards her doom_.  As he dragged her closer to him, she could feel him slowly, painfully, tearing her soul out until there was nothing left of her but a vacant husk. 

It did not take a seer to tell her what that dream foretold.  She was inexplicably drawn to that dangerous mer like a moth to a flame; no matter how she might try to resist. If she drew too close, she was sure to share the same fate and she had no desire to be consumed by his scorching flames.  She tore her eyes away from the moldering mage and walked into Windhelm, putting thoughts of the enigmatic Thalmor Commander behind her for the time being.  She was just happy to be home at long last.

\--------

Ondolemar walked idly to his room, happy to be surrounded by luxury, good food and drink.

He was grateful to be spending the next several days at the embassy before he resumed his duties.  Perhaps it was his overt enthusiasm at being away from Markarth for an extended period, but he had enjoyed one too many glasses of wine at dinner and then perhaps a brandy or three at dessert.  He couldn’t exactly pinpoint why but his exuberance at being in an environment more suited to his tastes, had enlivened his mood considerably.

Drowsy, satiated and thoroughly relishing the pleasant sensation the alcohol created as it settled in his blood, Ondolemar sat down in a plush wingback chair and opened a book.  He tried reading but was unable to focus; instead found himself lulled into a rare state of repose.  He stared into the deep orange flames of the hearth, stretching contentedly as their lambent warmth spread over him.  It was very late and the rest of the Embassy was quiet. He suspected that everyone else had long gone to bed. 

Ondolemar closed his eyes in rest and lost the will to shut “ _the Nord”_ from his mind.  He had spent too many sleepless nights thinking of her; thoughts that haunted him as he lay awake in his bed wondering where she was, what she was doing, or who she was with.  These minor little questions slowly began to eat away at him and took hold in his mind until they became a permanent part of his nightly routine.

Eventually these thoughts evolved into mild yearning for her return.  He told himself it was only because he intended to apologize for his lack of manners.  Yet, he had counted every day she was gone until he reached a month and then he gave up hope of seeing her again. It frustrated him to think that he clearly had not had the same effect on her and so he tried putting her from his mind; only he failed miserably.  There was no reason for her to return, she was too busy doing Ulfric’s dirty work and thwarting the efforts of his Justiciars to take a frivolous trip to Markarth. The very thought of never seeing her again created a mysterious deep pit somewhere within his chest and it annoyed him.

Instead of fading away as memories generally do with time, she had proven persistent.  Thinking of her became a preoccupation, taking up all of the space in his head until his typical foul demeanor was bordering on downright malicious. The people of Markarth, including his own guards, had learned to steer clear of him more so than usual.   For the last month, he had vowed to end his torment by working endlessly.   He was up at dawn every day and working up until well after midnight. Keeping himself busy was the only way to keep the intrusive thoughts at bay.  He was determined to give his mind peace and his body the joy of sleep through extreme exhaustion.

It seemed as though the more he fought the urges inside of him, the worse his condition became. Eventually, he convinced himself she’d put him under a spell.  These thoughts had embittered him because in his mind, it could be nothing else.  He had always been immune to matters of the heart. Ondolemar had never been in love, not once in his entire life; not even back during his academy days when all young mer were “sowing their oats” and relationships came and went like the seasons.  No, love was not something he’d ever felt and even if it were possible (and for him, it wasn’t), he would never lower himself to fall into _anything_ with a mere human. The very idea was absurd enough to make him laugh.  Love was just a word that the filthy savages used to describe lust when they wanted to rut with each other like animals. 

Now _rutting_ he wouldn’t mind; although perhaps he would describe it more eloquently.  For him, sex was a different matter.  He often partook and _immensely_ enjoyed sex in all its forms until he was forced to give it up when he was called on to serve the Aldmeri Dominion as a Justiciar.  At the time, it seemed like a small sacrifice.  He was starting to suspect that he may have underestimated his own appetites.

Although he would be loathed to admit it, he had also struggled terribly with the memory of their last meeting, which too often wanted to drift into fantasy.  While it disgusted him, there was nearly nothing he could do to block it out.  Breathing deeply, he recalled perfectly the way her silky white hair had felt in his hands, her soft mouth opening under his, that soft warm body pressing tightly against him… even now, he could feel his body yearning for more.

Feeling sufficiently warmed by the fire, he unbuckled his robes, letting the thick fabric hang open so his chest was exposed.  A cool breeze drifted in from an open window, flirted languidly with the curtains before softly caressing his flame warmed skin.  For a moment, he imagined it was _her_ … so arousing was the thought that he gave a low, husky sigh.  Between his legs, he felt a familiar stirring; a prickling rush that grew rigid and heavy until it ached.  He detested himself for this mortal weakness… this _perversion_.  No woman had ever driven him to such a state where just thinking of her made his cock so hard, it was nigh impossible to think of anything other than relieving the pressure.

Ondolemar untied his trousers and his robe fell to either side of his thighs, exposing more of his lean golden body to the fire’s light. 

_Perhaps if I allow myself to release one more time…_

He had deliberately ignored his carnal desires since he had last debased himself all over his desk in Markarth.  The very thought of it had been incredibly appalling and he did not wish to have a repeat session.  However, this time, he was too tired to resist.   

He rummaged through the side table until he discovered a bottle of warm oil, usually used for softening the skin of your hands- or so they said.  Knowing it would suit his purposes just fine, he leaned back into the chair and let his magicka pool around him.  This time, he was going to relish it and he had no qualms about using his magical talents to heighten the experience.

One of the perks of being a mage skilled in illusion is being able to split your state of awareness.  A dual conscious, if you will. If your abilities were well honed, one could make it so it was hard to distinguish which was the illusion and which was reality, as both sentient states were mirrors of the other.  Your mind only needed to be open to suggestion.  In his semi-inebriated and erotically charged state, Ondolemar found himself _quite_ susceptible.  He hesitated for only a moment as this was treading into uncharted waters, even for him.  

_Surely, there would be no ramifications from such a simple dream-state spell._

It did not take long for the images of the last encounter to form clearly in his mind. He allowed his magicka to pick up, from his memory, where he and Sigrun had left off in reality: He had her pinned against the stone column and at his complete mercy.  Ondolemar closed his eyes and concentrated on forming the memory into an alternate reality where he was both the participant and the observer.

Once satisfied with the result, he put a firm fist around his thick member and immersed himself completely in the illusion, watching the events unfold before him.  He let out a shuddering breath as he began a slow, rhythmic pumping.

The feel of being taller and larger was extremely stimulating as he crushed her against him.  This time, instead of the amulet, he snapped the leather cord holding the bodice of her armor together until her breasts were exposed and bare before him. He grasped the full mounds of warm flesh in his hands, savoring their feminine softness. 

He groaned aloud as the pink nipples hardened under his touch.  Longing for a taste, he dipped his head to take one into his mouth, suckling and nipping as she arched against him.  She fisted his robes and pulled him closer, whispering desperately against his ear, sending shockwaves of pleasure through his body. He lifted his head to kiss her again, his lips meeting hers and then he was stroking silky-smooth skin; his hands traveling down her flat belly to rest at the apex of her thighs.  
  
Harsh puffs of breath were becoming more and more ragged as he pumped his shaft furiously now, biting down on his lip.

He removed his gloves and loosened her belt until her pants slid down enough for him to slip his bare hand between her parted legs. He let out low growl as he explored her innermost secrets with his fingers. To his surprise, her apparition seemed to have a will of its own as she spread her legs wider, allowing him more access. He expertly worked her, curling his fingers deliciously within her swollen sex until she was gasping and tightening around him, coming undone by his hand alone.  Her sighs and moans of pleasure went straight to his cock.

Now he was panting heavily, his gasping only occasionally punctuated by a grunt.  A sheen of perspiration formed on his brow and his white teeth clenched with lust as he continued stroking himself.

In the dream-state, his name was on her lips, begging him for more, wanting him as much as he wanted her. Her voice was dripping with something between ecstasy and anguish as she quivered against his hand with impending release---  

Before he could finish his fantasy to completion and to his utter disbelief, he came with a vengeance.  Ondolemar had to bite down on his lip to keep himself from crying out, lest he wake the building.  He shivered violently as waves of pleasure washed over him. He opened his eyes and sat breathless for several moments, shocked at the intensity of his session.  It had seemed far too real and in his sex induced haze, it was… perplexing.

_I need to find her...  Now._

Absentmindedly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out her amulet. All he could do was scowl at it in deep contemplation, disturbed by his own intense reaction to their illusory coupling. 

Ondolemar was unsure just how long he’d been sitting there formulating his plan but the knock on his door startled him from his stupor.  He glanced at the clock on the mantel, it was just after 6am. 

“Just a moment, please.”  He said as he quickly cleaned himself and re-buttoned his robes.

Ondolemar swung the door open to find First Emissary Elenwen staring back at him, looking just as composed as ever.  It was a jarring sight to see so early in the morning.  He swallowed, as a rare, momentary lapse into panic overtook him. Had she somehow discovered what he'd just done?

“I received a message from Northwatch Keep.” 

Relief. _Oh thank the Gods_.

She held up the letter for him to take, “Apparently, your Skald never made it.”

“What?” He snapped, grabbing the paper from her hand, “Why did it take over a month for them to let us know?”

Elenwen shook her head, “There were several prisoners due in that day and yours was the one with the least guard.  Only two of our officers and two guards on loan from Markarth.  It took a few days but when the convoy never showed, they sent a scouting party to try and find it.” 

She cleared her throat before continuing, “Bandits can be… _problematic_ in this barbaric country, as you know.  The initial scouting party was, for lack of a better word, butchered.”

“Unfortunate. Did they ever discover what happened to the convoy from Markarth?”

“Yes, but only after another party was sent out several days later.  They found the carriage overturned and the guards dead. Your Skald was not among them.”

So Ogmund managed to escape justice yet again.  That man was entirely too lucky.  Perhaps a likelier explanation, he thought sardonically, was his own poor luck of late.  “So they assumed he had either escaped or was… freed?”

“The latter.  Two horses, not belonging to any of the guards, were found dead with the rest of the convoy. The only real information we have is from a traveling Khajiit caravan that claims they saw an older Nord male matching Ogmund’s description, leaving Solitude with two women, Nord and Dunmer.  It was perhaps a day or two after the transport was ambushed.”

“I’ve an idea who it may be.”  He said sourly.

“Good.  Then I don’t need to remind you how important it is that we take care of this as quickly as possible.”

In a deadly calm voice, he replied: “No, madam Ambassador, you do not.  I will _personally_ take care of this myself _._ ”

She inclined her head and walked away, leaving him fuming. He closed his door and sat back down, looking at the report but not reading the words.

_When I find you, little whore of Talos, you are going to pay dearly for what you have done to me._

\-----------

Sigrun awoke with a name on her lips. Crying out in ecstasy this time, not fear.  She clutched her bedsheets to her chest as an orgasm tore through her.  It took her a minute or two to recover before realizing what happened. Her eyes wide and searching.  She sat up in her bed, still breathless, sweating and positively convinced _he_ was somewhere in her room. 

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could see that it was, in fact, just a dream.  

_It was, right?_

Placing a hand on her head, she fell back on her pillow and stared blankly at the canopy of her bed.  It was a strange dream and not one she’d ever had before. She slipped a hand between her legs where the throbbing ache was slowly ebbing and found herself slick with arousal. 

She felt uneasy.  It was as if a suppressed fantasy had surfaced in one of her dreams and she was back in Markarth with him again, up against the stone and wanting him desperately.  Even though she was confused by the fervency of her dream, a larger part of her was disappointed it didn’t continue.  

_It was definitely better than the nightmares…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so Rulindil is half bosmer to me, sorry. The black eyes from Oblivion and Morrowind ruined me. :) He has an interesting background though and I intend to get to that via Ondolemar's racist POV. 
> 
> “Wo los daar faasnu joor?” = Who is this mortal without fear?  
> "Mu grind ahst laat, Dovahkiin…” = We meet at last, Dragonborn...
> 
> Crow Cage: http://www.photoree.com/photos/permalink/10007886-click
> 
> Sigrun and Ondolemar had a simultaneous orgasm. I will let you draw your own conclusions about how his spell worked. ;)


	7. Like a Moth to a Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Useless prayers uttered in hushed whispers to a false god and all Ondolemar could muster was mild frustration. He was more aggravated by his eyes that seemed to have a will of their own and kept falling to her full lips, forcing him to recall fully their last kiss. Such beautifully lush lips that he ached to taste again, even as they mouthed words he knew should condemn her. Though his anger had been dampened by his attraction, he was utterly revolted by her blind devotion to a man she believed her savior. A man he knew to be a murderer and rapist of his own people. Atrocities he was sure she was ignorant of, given her youth and race. 
> 
> Inherently, he knew Sigrun could not understand and yet he was struck with a very human-like desire to justify himself.

The boat swayed as it pulled lazily into the harbor, gulls calling out its presence against a stone gray sky.  The cold, salty air was a refreshing change from the cabin below and Sigrun relished the breeze as she stood on deck, Valyn at her side.  She swiped errant strands of white hair from her eyes as she looked up to see Solitude, the glittering Imperial gem of Skyrim, high above them on the cliff. 

She was to meet a contact here.  Who it was, she couldn’t say.  She had only received a mysterious letter stating they had information pertaining to the Dragons and to meet at the inn. 

As they disembarked, Sigrun heard commotion from within the city.  Valyn gave her a hesitant glance as it sounded to be a large crowd gathering. 

Sigrun shrugged and looked to a guard.  “What’s the noise all about?”

“First of the month, execution day.”

Sigrun gave Valyn a side-long look.  “Wonderful.”

The walked along the stony path leading to the city’s entrance. No one bothered to cast them a second glance, as was often the case in the larger cities.

As they entered through the gate, the entrance into the main city was blocked by a huge gathering of people in the quad.  Every race, class and gender imaginable was in attendance as there was nothing quite like the obscenity of an impending violence to bring people together, Sigrun thought morosely. She found it hard to contain her frustration as the guards would not allow her or Valyn to pass further into the city until the executions were complete.  She resigned herself to her fate since she realized that even if they could get further in, the crowd was too dense to get through.

With that thought in mind, a thief never wastes a such an opportunity.  Valyn and Sigrun exchanged a look that only another professional pickpocket would recognize.

“I say we make the best of it. Where else do you find such a wealth of nobles so carelessly flaunting their wealth?” Valyn whispered, making sure they were out of earshot of the guards. 

Smirking, Sigrun pulled her hood over hair and they slipped quietly in through the crowd, disappearing into anonymity.  Sidling up behind a wealthy merchant, Sigrun pulled out her dagger and neatly cut a slit into the coin purse at his side.  Forty-seven septims clinked into the palm of her hand before she slipped back into the shadows, on the hunt for her next victim.

Imperial executions were quite different from the ones typically held in Skyrim, she quickly surmised, picking her way through the throng of people, relieving all manner of coin pouches of their burdens.  Her own experience in Helgen notwithstanding, Imperials seemed to enjoy long and drawn out executions. 

However, what she had seen in Helgen was nothing compared to this display of bloodlust.  As if the crowd on ground wasn’t large enough, there were people of all races and ages leaning out of windows, sitting on rooftops, and standing on each other’s shoulders to view the grisly proceedings.  The worst by far were the people shoving at one another, vying to get into the front row, just so they could catch the blood-spray when the heads came off. 

The showmanship was completely repugnant. There were vendors selling mead and meat pies as if this were a group of visiting troubadours coming in to town to perform.  It painted a foul picture of humanity at its worst.

While their execution methods could be just as brutal, Nords rarely made a performance out of it and certainly nothing ever on this level.  The message was more important than the pageantry, she thought, recalling the dead Thalmor wizard hanging from one of Ulfric's gibbets.  She remembered attending an execution once with her father when she was only fourteen.  It was a very small gathering of men from the head clans; the man was swiftly beheaded and they all went about their business after the deed was done.  Though grim, it was a necessary task that needed to happen from time to time. To a Nord, there was nothing proud about losing one’s honor to the point of needing execution. 

Having lost herself in her thoughts, Sigrun noticed the crowd began to shift, accompanied by a low sort of jeering hiss. She looked around in interest to see what had caused the fuss.  Like an ominous portent, a rumble of thunder sounded above, succeeding in making the entire exhibition that much more horrifying.

“Wonder who they’re executing to bring those haughty bastards out from hiding?”  Valyn quipped, coming up from behind, pocketing her spoils.  Sigrun followed her crimson eyes as they pinned themselves onto the tall black-robed elves being escorted by who, she could only assume by the elaborate uniform he wore, was General Tullius himself. 

Sigrun opened her mouth to give a sardonic response but the words died on her tongue. 

_You have got to be kidding…_

It was _him_.  Cursing her poor luck, Sigrun made a point of pulling her hood up tighter around her face, her eyes never leaving the elves as they took their places beside their Imperial lackeys.

She watched with interest as Ondolemar spoke in an officious-like manner with the General and the Captain who was to preside over the execution.   All four of the Thalmor officers that had accompanied him into the city, stood with self-satisfied sneers, reveling in the fear they instigated and lording their power over the masses they considered below them. 

One in tell-tale golden armor, didn’t even blink an eye as some brave soul threw a half-eaten meat pie in his direction.  The crowd collectively gasped as the hurled pie exploded on the shoulder of his armor. Any higher and it would have caught him across the jaw, both Sigrun and Valyn fought the urge to suppress a laugh as did many around them. 

"You deserve that and more, you knife-eared tyrants!" Someone shrieked angrily. Given the size of the mob gathered, it was impossible to pinpoint where it came from.  Seemingly unaffected, the soldier gave a dispassionate sigh and merely flicked the bits of food away as if he expected nothing less from such a hoard of ‘savages’.

Sigrun’s gaze drifted back over to Ondolemar who now looked perfectly bored; clearly wishing he’d rather be anywhere else.  Whoever was condemned had obviously committed some terrible grievance against the Empire, the treaty or maybe both.  The Thalmor never really attended executions and Sigrun was curious as to why this one was so important. 

Unable to keep herself from watching him, Sigrun saw as Ondolemar leaned in to listen to something the Captain was saying and as he did so, his eyes swept aloofly over the crowd.  Sigrun held her breath as they stopped on her momentarily before appearing to move on, but her relief was short-lived.  Her blood ran cold when his eyes immediately flicked back in her direction and fixed her with a pointed stare.  To anyone else, the slight flaring of recognition in his pupils would have been imperceptible. Swallowing thickly, she quickly reached for Valyn and steered them behind a tall, heavily built Orsimer, effectively blocking the path of those searing green eyes that had so often haunted her dreams of late.

“What in Oblivion are you doing?”  Valyn hissed. “We won’t be able to see anything from here.”  Sigrun shot her a hard look before peering out from behind the Orc, only to see that Ondolemar was still looking in their direction, a frown severely carved into his face.

Valyn followed the direction of Sigrun’s eyes and turned back to her in surprise, “Why is he staring at you?!  Does he know who you are?”

Before Sigrun could respond the crowd began to stir around them.  The Orc in front of them moved, allowing Ondolemar an unhindered view of Sigrun once again.  She pulled her hood up tighter and tried to concentrate on the events as they began to unfold, trying to ignore his fixated stare.

A distraction came for them both when a veritable roar broke from the rumbling citizens. Within seconds, a man was dragged reluctantly towards the bloody execution block. 

“You can’t do this!  I d-didn’t do anything wrong!”  He was near hysterics as he shouted, his pleas falling on deaf ears.  “It was honorable combat!  I…I did the right thing!  This is not justice!!!”

The young Imperial soldier escorting him snarled and yanked the rope binding his wrists all the harder.  The condemned man fell forward onto the steps and cried out pitifully; the crowd cheered, enjoying the show.  The soldier kicked him and the crowd cheered even louder. 

When the man finally rose, he was visibly trembling and Sigrun couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.  She went to reach for her amulet and she sighed in frustration as she remembered who had taken it from her, glancing in his direction.  Alarm bolted through her veins when she looked to where Ondolemar had just been standing minutes ago, only to find that his retinue was now one Justiciar short.  Her eyes flicked wildly over the mass of people but _he_ was nowhere to be found.

Only Valyn was at her side, and she was too engrossed in watching the macabre proceedings to notice Sigrun's apprehension.  Sigrun forced herself to remain calm. Panicking would only draw more attention. Blending into her surroundings was her specialty and she needed to remember that.

_He can’t hurt me here anyway.  Surely._

Raucous comments were made as the prisoner mounted the scaffold’s steps with his head down and less dignity than a lame skeever.  The soldier roughly placed him in front of the chopping block, then stood on the platform and read aloud the man’s crimes.

“Roggvir, you helped Ulfric Stormcloak escape this city after he murdered High King Torygg.  By opening that gate for Ulfric, you betrayed the people of Solitude.”

Sigrun’s heart sunk.  She had remembered hearing about this man from her father several months ago before he died.  This Roggvir had adamantly believed that Ulfric won his duel against the High King honorably. Sigrun’s father had said Ulfric has used his Thu’um that day and that while it had been a wondrous sight to behold, he probably should have refrained as it threw into question the circumstances of his victory.  Some said it was fair, others felt it was murder.  Roggvir was of the former camp and opened the gate for Ulfric and his soldiers without realizing that such an act of innocence could be misconstrued as disloyalty.

“Filthy traitor!”  Someone shouted.

The Imperial Captain that Ondolemar had been speaking with, came forward and looked down at the man whose body was now wracked with sobs. There was something close to pity in the Captain's eyes as he addressed the quivering Nord before him, “Do you have any last words, Roggvir?”

“Ulfric did not murder the High King!!  He challenged Torygg and he beat him in fair combat!  Such is our way! I only opened a gate! A gate... I... opened...”  The desperate supplication in his voice did nothing but incense the audience further. 

Roggvir was still attempting to speak when the crowd began to jeer at him once again and he was pelted with food or spat on.  The large hooded executioner came forward and Roggvir cowered as he took stock of the huge axe that would soon remove his head from his shoulders.  He was roughly shoved forward; the executioner was growing more impatient than the crowd. He lifted a large boot and placed it on the man's back, urging him forward. Tears began streaming down Roggvir’s grimy face, leaving white streaks behind in their wake.

“Praise be to Talos!” He cried, “On this day, I go to Sovngarde!”  His last words were interrupted by mocking cries and protests for the executioner to 'get on with it'. 

Sigrun winced as Roggvir laid down on the block with grim acceptance, his neck looking fragile and exposed before the bloodthirsty axe.  

Finding that she had no stomach to watch the man die, Sigrun squeezed her eyes shut as the executioner raised his halberd in meaty arms.  A sickening thud marked the removal of the man’s head and the end of his existence on Nirn.  The crowd around erupted in cheer, a morbid reaction that contrasted with the chilling silence Sigrun felt in her heart.  There were no words to define such injustice. 

Sigrun looked to Valyn and snarled, “I feel a need to pray.  I’m going into the temple to clear my mind.”

“You never pray and you never go anywhere near a temple if you can help it.  What’s gotten into you?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe Ulfric has the right of it after all.  You know I don’t like his methods but I think I dislike more the Empire stooping so low as to kill a man for simply standing for what he believes in.  He only opened the gate.”  She was still warily glancing around, making sure no one was listening to what she was saying, especially with the elves wandering around.

Sigrun had a hard time controlling he sharpness in her tone.  “It makes them _no better_ than the Thalmor. There is no greater coward than wanting to silence someone because they disagree with you.  I remember very well what my father told me from that day and that man was no traitor.  I suppose I just needed to see it with my own eyes.  Now I no longer have to wrestle with the guilt that I chose the wrong side.”

Again, thunder rumbled overhead and Valyn looked up at the darkening sky above. “Okay.  I’ll wait for you in the inn.  Don’t be long, a storm is on the way.”

Sigrun explained that she felt the temple was probably the safest place for her to remain until they could meet with the elusive ‘informant’.  Though she did not mention it, she also had no wish to enter into another confrontation with Ondolemar.  And as of right now and with a growing sense of unease, she remembered that she still had not located his whereabouts. 

\---------

He had watched and waited, biding his time from a distance, knowing she would eventually let her guard down.  Sigrun went alone into the church, her companion heading to the inn.

Ondolemar waited a few minutes and then followed after her. He quietly opened the door and went inside, the priestess shot him a glare but knew better than to say anything.  Sneaking into a temple to harass its parishioners was generally looked down upon. But recently, that hadn’t stopped many of the Thalmor from breaching the sanctity of its walls and brutally enforcing their ban on Talos.  He knew exactly what she was thinking and disregarded it.

With catlike grace, he crept into the vestry where he could watch without her being aware of his presence. It only took a moment for his sight to adjust to the darkness.  But there she was on her knees, in front of an empty alcove that a shrine to Talos had once occupied.

_Little fool._

Her arrogance annoyed him. Apparently, the removing of the physical shrine itself was not nearly as effective as he would have thought at keeping people from their veneration.

Rain began to fall softly outside; he could hear the slight tapping of the drops on the roof.  The warm flickering of the candles and the fragrant incense burning brought back memories of the temples in Alinor and he was overcome with a sudden sense of peace.  The priestess went about her business as she became convinced that he was not likely to cause trouble.

Ondolemar remained silent and allowed himself to be drawn in further by the ambiance.  He leaned a shoulder against the stone and folded his arms across his chest, the irritation he had just felt moments ago began to dissipate as he watched Sigrun in prayer.  Her leather hood was drawn back and he was able to clearly see the exquisite features she often hid within its shade.

She was far more lovely than he had remembered and the smoldering feelings within his chest and loins began to kindle.  A single candle was next to her, illuminating brilliant, silvery-white hair. It was loose from her usual braids and hung in long, thick waves that fell about her waist.

Her face was void of any bruises this time, no war-paint either, only thick smudges from where her kohl lined eyes had been ruined by tears.  Ondolemar inwardly chided himself at the sudden urge he felt to wipe away her tears with his thumbs and kiss dry the trails they had left on her cheeks.

Useless prayers uttered in hushed whispers to a false god and all Ondolemar could muster was mild frustration.  He was more aggravated by his eyes that seemed to have a will of their own and kept falling to her full lips, forcing him to recall fully their last kiss. Such beautifully lush lips that he ached to taste again, even as they mouthed words he knew should condemn her.  Though his anger had been dampened by his attraction, he was utterly revolted by her blind devotion to a man she believed her savior.  A man he knew to be a murderer and rapist of his own people.  Atrocities he was sure she was ignorant of, given her youth and race.

Something within him wanted to explain to her the history of the Thalmor.  That they weren’t always so bad and that Ondolemar truly believed he was serving his people and his country.  It was something to be admired and respected.  The Thalmor were brutal about enforcing their demands, yes, but they weren’t just the tyrants they appeared to be.  They _were not_ Tiber Septim, committing mass genocide on a race only to subjugate and humiliate them. There were valid reasons, some very personal to him that made him choose to serve the Thalmor with utmost loyalty, though there were times that he disagreed with their approach. 

Inherently, he knew Sigrun could not understand and yet he was struck with a very human-like desire to justify himself.

Sigrun opened her eyes, sensing something was amiss and looked around the room.  She appeared to be alone, except for the priestess.  She slowed her heartbeat, honing in, trying to listen for the subtle hints she knew were there.

Seizing the opportunity to catch her before she discovered him, Ondolemar rose from his leaning position and quickly moved to stand behind her. He leaned down and purred silkily in her ear, “Do you really believe your futile prayers will save you from _me_?”

Chills ran up Sigrun’s spine involuntarily at the sound of his mellifluous voice whispering so close to her ear.  She wanted to melt but instead, she whirled around in surprise, craning her neck to look up at him.  He stood behind her like a great hooded ghoul, green eyes glowing balefully from beneath his stiff cowl.  

“Well? Have you no answer?”  More chills.

“Do not touch me.”  Sigrun threatened, rising to her feet.  “While this may be a place of worship, I’ll have no problem turning you into a nice bloody sacrifice to Talos, _elf_.”

His upper lip gave a slight twitching curl at her words. “Duly noted. However, I merely require your cooperation, Nord.”

Sigrun gave a mocking snort, “For what?  Another illicit kiss?”

There was only a brief pause before he stepped forward and loomed over her, completely filling her vision.   “Would you like that?”  The timbre of his voice caused an instinctive throb between her legs.  Sigrun felt as if his eyes were burning into hers and when he ever so slightly raised his brow while waiting for her response, she was sure he could sense her weakness.  It was not the reaction she had expected, from either of them. 

“No.”  She murmured weakly.  His eyes fell to her lips and then down to her breasts which rose and fell temptingly with each breath. The sweet ache in his loins was intensifying.

Sigrun eyed him warily as he continued.  “I just want to… question you.”  
  
“You mean interrogate.  I’ve done nothing wrong and you can’t do this again.” She whispered desperately.  His face was so close she had to turn away to avoid him.  
  
“Oh but I can and I will.”  His voice was filled with venom as he roughly pulled her face back around, forcing her to look into his eyes, that were somehow, not as angry as they were a few moments ago.  Instead, his pupils were widely dilated and they slowly traveled over her face as if drinking in her every detail. 

“What do you plan to do then?” She demanded, needing the distraction before she did something foolish. “You have no _real_ proof of anything to detain me. That necklace you have could be anyone’s.”

“I do not need proof, Nord.” Dropping his hand from her face, Ondolemar gave a bored sigh, as if she were nothing more than a petulant child.   “Your status within the Stormcloaks is enough justification alone.  However, I am also well aware that you have taken it upon yourself to foil my plans at every turn by releasing _my prisoners_ from Thalmor custody.” 

“I’m Thane in several holds, I have the authority to do as I see fit.”

“It is incitement to war, little fool,” he spat. “I somehow doubt your Imperial adversaries will like the fact that you’ve meddled in their affairs, Thane or not. Shall I drag you to into Castle Dour myself to find out whether they harbor any respect for your ridiculous Nord customs?  You should have been able to tell today how far they’re willing to go to prevent another costly war with the Dominion.  If we want them to send a message, they will do so.  Do you have a care to be the next martyr?” 

Silver eyes were aflame with Nordic fury but she did not speak.  He was right and she knew it. 

She clenched her jaw and backed up, only to have him follow.  “You would have me killed then?  Tortured?  Arrested?  Trialed?”

“Never.”  As if in punctuation to his cryptic confession, a loud crash of thunder sounded outside, causing the windows of the temple to vibrate.

Something in the air had shifted, her anger vanished as quickly as it had come.  A deadening silence settled around them in the aftermath of the thunder. All they could hear was the rain pouring on the roof and the priestess who was pretending not to listen by idly sweeping the floors. 

Sigrun’s pulse leapt as she saw within his emerald depths, a sweltering heat that would have rivaled the fires of Oblivion. The part of her that was rebelling against the whole situation was diminishing rapidly as he drew in closer.  
  
“You have caused me an obscene amount of suffering since we last met.” Though spoken quietly, the words were said with an indifference that did not match the heaviness in the air around them.  Even the priestess who was a moment ago, sweeping the floor, stopped to watch their odd intimate exchange.

Sigrun’s large, liquid eyes were searching his in confusion, “What?”

Standing above her now with his breath fanning her cheek, Ondolemar’s face still wore that emotionless Thalmor mask of arrogant boredom.  
  
_Except his eyes._  

“I have been unable to put you from my mind despite my best efforts.”

Holding her breath, Sigrun lowered her eyes to stare at her feet. Something about the way he’d been looking at her made her recall with burning intensity, their last few encounters and how they always seemed on the verge of bedding one another. She had wanted to avoid him for this very reason.

Although he could never have known, but intermingled with her prayers for the condemned man and her father, she had been praying for Talos to guide her and to help her resist this Altmer who always looked at her with such intensely hot eyes.  Whenever they were together, the niggling sense of guilt that she was betraying everything she stood for ate at her until she felt as if it would consume her whole. 

She was so lost within her own thoughts that she had scarcely noticed when Ondolemar reached out and touched her hair, it’s silky pale strands falling over the black leather of his gloves.  “I demand you release me from whatever spell it is that you’ve cast over me _.”_

Sigrun looked at him curiously, her dark brows furrowed in disbelief. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” She hissed.  “I haven’t cast any spells over you.  I wouldn’t even know where to begin to try.”

A flicker of vulnerability shown in his eyes before he looked quickly away, still idly stroking her hair.  He put it to his lips and closed his eyes, breathing her in. 

She did not feel an urge to stop him.

Instead, Sigrun found herself inexplicably drawn to the exotic Altmeri tilt of his eyes surrounded by thick, dark lashes and highly arched brows.  She was overcome with a sudden longing to shake him from his constant apathy and run her tongue gently over his bottom lip and suckle it until he deigned to kiss her back.

She had to bite down on her bottom lip to keep her mouth from falling open as he looked back up. Sigrun did feel a slight give in her knees when he whispered against her ear in a demandingly desperate voice, “Wretched little human, stop tormenting me so and let me show you pleasure you’ve never dreamt possible.”

Her lip was close to bleeding now; she was biting so hard.  She squeezed her eyes shut and rallied any resolve she had left.

“No…” She whispered back firmly, despite every other instinct within her fighting to give in.  She could not betray her father or Ulfric or now, the thousands of men like Roggvir who had died because of the Aldmeri Dominion’s chokehold on the Empire. “Never.”

“Why?” His breath was tortured as he took another step forward, nosing her hair and ear.  Sigrun wanted so badly to allow it that her heart ached. But she would never give herself to this… this…  


“Elf.” She managed, her voice coarse from her inward struggle. Then before long, she mustered more disgustedly: “ _Tha-Thalmor_.”

He closed his eyes at the word, pausing, hot puffs of breath against her skin. She smelled good, like vanilla and wildflowers, reminding him of the era before the war, before he had changed. He buried his face against her neck. Frustrated.

Sigrun had nearly lost the battle and turned toward him.  For just a moment, their mouths hovered, wanting, desiring but both knowing it would only cause the other more torment.

In that hesitation, the priestess gasped and dropped her broom, startling the two from their lust induced haze.  When they both turned on her with an angry glare, her eyes widened in terror and she ran from the room. 

Reality came crashing back and Ondolemar backed away, ashamed at having been caught.  He pulled his walls back up and fell easily into his normal persona as if they had just had a casual conversation. 

Turning towards Sigrun, his voice was edged with ice, “Tell me then, why I want you in a way that I’ve never wanted another?  I would never willingly lower myself to desire a human in such a way.  If it is not a spell, then _what is it?_ ” 

“I don’t know.”  She snapped.  “This is far more trouble than it’s worth.  What do you think I could possibly gain by casting a spell on _you_?”

He ignored her question and made sure his voice was loud enough in case the priestess was still within earshot, “You may revel in your minor victory, Nord, though it will be short lived. You’ve had your fun at my expense and I should have warned you during our first meeting, that I don’t appreciate nor tolerate such games.”

“As if you’re the only one affected!”  Sigrun whispered harshly as she poked him in the chest to emphasize her point, “You have invaded my thoughts at the worst of times.”

Ondolemar backed up another step as she unleashed her building rage on him.  Her voice was still whispering, though far too loudly for comfort, “I have had both dreams and nightmares about you!  I try to avoid you for weeks in the hopes that this silliness will pass but it hasn’t.  I come into this temple for peace and you follow me here.  It is a relentless assault and I grow tired of it. I hate you and yet… a-and yet… I... it doesn’t matter.  You make me feel things that betray any sense of honor I have left.  So please, just leave me alone!”

Ondolemar said nothing for several moments, though he was floored by her admission.  There was only one thing left to do now.

Sigrun felt her ire rise again as he only stared at her, eyes moving over her body as if she were nothing more than a prized sow he was considering purchasing.  How his demeanor could change so drastically from one instant to the next, never ceased to amaze her. 

Without warning, his fingertips lit with green magicka and he pressed them into her arm.

“You should have stayed in Eastmarch.” 

She fell forward on to him, limbs limp, and unable to move. He held her against him tightly and his breathing became ragged. He seemed to struggle inwardly for a second or two before recovering.

“Why?”  She croaked drowsily, trying to look up at him and failing.  


Ondolemar began adjusting his gloves behind her back but Sigrun was too somnolent from the spell to fully comprehend what he was doing, “I tell you now with all sincerity, that is an admission you should have never made for it just sealed your fate.”

“How?”

“As you can see, I now have the upper hand. I always find a way. That is my job.  It’s something we Thalmor will always have and will stop at nothing to achieve.”

He yanked her head back cruelly when she snorted at his pride. “You are in a very dangerous position, human.  I suggest you cooperate and curb your tongue.  I’ve had enough of you meddling in my thoughts and in the way I conduct my business.  I never lose prisoners and I aim to make you pay dearly for that transgression. But moreso, you will pay for the suffering you have caused me personally. You _will_ learn your place for putting me in such a state.”

Ondolemar’s lips were hovering over hers, tantalizingly close.  Had she been in full control of her limbs, Sigrun would have forced her lips against his in the same way he had done to her.  Had she been in full control of her mind, she would have run. 

Seeming to have read her thoughts, he chided, “Not yet, little dove.  We elves have learned the discipline of patience and so shall you.”

Dragging her behind him by her arm, he gave a pointed glower at the priestess as he left the temple.  The woman understood the silent threat in his glower, knowing that if she wanted to remain alive, she would never utter a word of what she had witnessed within those stone walls.

The rain was still falling heavily outside and he pulled his cloak up around his shoulders, hiding her arm within his robes. He tried discreetly walking her to the Thalmor headquarters across the courtyard but she yanked back on her arm, nearly toppling them both in the process.

“I need to meet someone.”  Sigrun slurred.  “My friend… she will worry.”

“Your plans have changed and I will have someone inform your little Dunmer ‘friend’ that you are perfectly safe.”  It was stated as fact.  He tugged her forward but she struggled again.

“Are you really just questioning me this time?” Sigrun gave a mocking laugh. “I suppose you have your reasons.  Fine.  But you should know, if you keep me too long, I have friends that will come looking for me and they won’t be happy.  You _think_ you have the upper hand but you Thalmor always seem to sorely underestimate your foes.  You have no idea who I am or what my abilities are or whom I have connected myself to, other than the Stormcloaks.  You know now that I am terrible with spells.  Not so with everything else.”

“You’re rambling.”

“Yeah?  I tend to do that when I’m not in my right mind. Honestly, I expected better from you.  Cheap spells seem so classless.  It’s like slipping a potion into a woman’s drink when she isn’t looking to get her to sleep with you.  Pathetic.”

“I’ve no need to use spells or potions to persuade a woman to my bed.” He sniffed and sent her an indifferent glance over his shoulder. Yet even as she stood in the rain, defiance written on her features, hair soaked and plastered to her forehead, he could not muster up the disgust he would have normally felt at her suggestion.  How such a ragged little thing managed to worm her way under his skin was still a mystery.

“Then would you please tell me what you plan to do?  The anticipation is killing me.”  The sarcasm in her tone earned her a scowl.

“If you must know, Emissary Elenwen will be quite pleased that I have found the culprit responsible for the freeing of Ogmund and the murder of two Thalmor soldiers.” He pursed his lips in contemplation, “I should think, considering your high standing within several holds and your status as Dragonborn-” He rolled his eyes at her gasp before derisively adding, “Yes I’ve heard the rumors.”

Continuing with his point, he said, “I should think that your detainment, however temporary, will be quite a blow to your beloved Stormcloaks.  Perhaps, it may even be disheartening enough to allow the Imperials to win the war so we may go about unhindered and finish purging this land of filthy heretics like yourself.” 

Ondolemar watched as her eyes blazed wide in wrath. Awareness began to slowly creep back into her consciousness.  The spell was already beginning to fade.

“You’re a fool if you think I’m that important.”  Unamused, he raised a brow and gave her another scornful frown.  He looked around the courtyard and was glad to find it empty due to the storm.  Pulling her roughly against him, he shot her through with another quick jolt, this time with enough magicka to have her fall into a heap at his feet. 

Sigrun was barely cognizant of him lifting her into his arms and wanting to resist but instead, she nestled herself comfortably against his chest and wrapped her arms around his neck. She pulled at the starched collar of his robes and buried her face against his neck, enjoying his the smell of his clean skin.  She began drifting in and out of sleep as he carried her to his end destination. 

She was unsure of how much time had elapsed but as if through a haze, she was vaguely aware of being inside a dimly room and then laid gently onto a large bed.  She gave an involuntary shuddering moan as her dampened leathers were peeled away and her chilled skin was caressed by overly warm hands.

A familiar voice spoke to her but it was low and muffled, as if it was in a tunnel.  She could not make out what he was saying.

_Was this another dream?_

Opening her eyes again, she could feel someone gently stroking her hair, threading it tenderly within their long fingers. A heavy weight was next to her on the bed and she turned towards the warmth emanating from it.  She sighed at the sensation of lips touching softly against her throat where her pulse fluttered. 

Before she drifted back into sleep, the voice returned again, this time lingering just over her lips. It was velvety smooth and laced with a desire so intense, she shivered, “You are such a beautiful little heathen. When you awaken you’re here for no other reason…” Sigrun’s awareness sharpened for a second, her heart beating frantically at his pause and after what seemed like an eternity, he growled possessively against her lips, “… _other than to make you mine.”_


	8. At His Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was the enemy and she wanted him. There was no longer a need to deny the facts, for either of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, sorry for the long wait. September is always a busy month for me! Lots of birthdays and school and other things. So anyway, I hope you enjoy the beginning of some smutty chapters. I will get back to building on their relationship but the sex is kind of a catalyst to that. So yeah, smut chapters incoming. I broke them up because it was just too much all at once. The others need more editing but should be up sooner than this one was. :)

Sigrun awoke to find herself lying in a soft bed. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dark of the room. The room was large and appointed with rich brocade silks and velvets and gleaming mahogany. It was certainly not any place she was familiar with because no one lived like this in Skyrim, not even nobles.  The elegance of the room was foreign and it made her uncomfortable.  
  
A window was cracked open and cool air blew in, silken drapes stirring; it chilled her bare skin. The realization that she was only in her under clothes startled her to complete awareness and she bolted upright in the bed. Her heart was fluttering rapidly in her chest as the events of the evening prior came rushing back.  
  
“Don’t be frightened.” A voice purred from the darkness.

Sigrun’s eyes flew wide, an odd mixture of excitement and fear washed over her and she began frantically searching the room for any other signs of his presence.

“Your armor and weaponry are in that chest beneath the window. I may consider returning them, provided you can manage to behave.”

To her right, the shadows of the room shifted and a familiar hooded figure stepped into the moonlight.  From her vantage point, she could not clearly see his face but she could feel his eyes on her skin.  Self-consciously she pulled her arms across her breasts.  
  
In a moment of panic, Sigrun made to dash from the bed but his reflexes were too well honed and before she could even gain her footing, he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back against him.  
  
“In case you’ve overlooked the obvious, you are in _my_ custody now.  There is no escape.”  His own words thrilled him.  They were alone and not likely to be disturbed and she… _was completely at his mercy_.

Ondolemar closed his eyes as he exhaled against her hair. He felt his heart begin throb heavily within his chest at her familiar smell and the warmth of her body in his arms.

Sigrun leaned back against him, relaxing into his embrace. He squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught of tortured longing and humiliation threatening to crumble the walls he’d built around himself for decades. 

All he knew in this moment was that he _needed_ her.  It was so powerful as to make him put aside all of his logic, his morals, his vows to the Thalmor and everything he’d learned for decades as right and just. It made him feel wretched and weak and he knew that he must conquer this personal failing as he had all the others in his lifetime.

Even in his private joy, the thought of this act, _with her_ , still had the power to shame him. _A human._   It wasn’t just a simple attraction; he could have justified that by her unique beauty.  No, it was something more, something he could not readily identify.

Ondolemar’s hesitation made Sigrun grow increasingly wary.  Perhaps the easiest way to rid himself of his torture would be to kill her.  He could and no one would ever know.  She heard too many stories of the Thalmor sneaking off with people into the night to think it was impossible.  Most of those people never returned.

 Sigrun swallowed thickly and hurried to break the silence lingering around them. 

“Where am I?” She whispered, turning to look over her shoulder at him.

The lines of his mouth were harsh, sneering down with distaste as if he was repelled by having her so close. When she lifted her eyes to meet his, she blanched at the intensity of the storms raging within those green depths. 

Before she could ponder his intentions too deeply, he spoke, “You are exactly where I want you to be.”  His voice was low and husky, edged with sex and it did not at all match his austere expression.

Without any outward signs of softening, he lifted a gloved hand and gently moved her hair away from her neck.

Sigrun tried to pull away.  The rational part of her mind begging with her to flee but he moved the other hand up and pressed it against her chest, long fingers just grazing the bottom of her throat.

Before she could make another move to escape, his lips touched the delicate skin beneath her ear.  His warm breath fanned her hair and suddenly the part of her that had wanted to run, vanished.

Sigrun sighed as his lips kissed and suckled at her skin.  Without realizing it she angled her neck to allow him better access.  His kisses grew more passionate as he bit and nipped at her neck.  She lifted her hands and rested them against the one on her chest, silently pleading with him to hold her closer.

 When she gave a throaty moan, he pulled back for only a moment, their eyes locked in a heated exchange. Sigrun felt a sweet ache begin grow between her thighs and she knew instantly that she would not deny him what he wanted.

_Run, you fool.  Run now and don’t return.  Run from this Thalmor as far as your legs will carry you.  Don’t look back._

“Please...”  She sobbed.  “Please let me go.”

He remained unmoved.  She saw his lips give a scowling twitch, as if he wanted to tell her something but couldn’t find the words.

“This won’t end well for either of us.  Let me go.”

“I cannot.”  It was all he could manage, his desire for her was so intense.  “I will not.” Ondolemar’s nostrils flared and the hoarseness in his voice caused the pounding within her chest to skip. “You will not haunt me again. I aim to finish what I’ve started.”

Ondolemar’s once stuffy expression transformed into one of pure lust.

He bared his teeth and gave a feral growl, tangling his fist in the back of her hair.  He crushed his mouth down on hers, his tongue demanding entrance which she was all too eager to give.

“What do you want?”  She gasped against his mouth, struggling to find the rational part of her mind.

“You.”

She made another weak move to escape him but he nipped lightly at her bottom lip and then traced his tongue tenderly along its fullness.  She sighed in response as he guided her towards the bed, his lips never leaving hers.

Ondolemar was thoroughly enjoying her feeble attempts at subduing his advances but there was no way _she_ was leaving him tonight and there was no way _he_ was letting her go. 

 _Not again.  Not this time_.

This was one of the first things he had done completely for himself in well over a quarter century.  Of course, he was going to do it for Sigrun too, she just didn’t realize it yet.

“Please just tell me why?”  Her whisper desperate.  
  
“I owe you no answers.  Now, get on the bed.”

The authoritative tone in his voice caused the warming between Sigrun’s legs to intensify.  She was shocked at her wanton response to his demands.

Sigrun refusing to show her weakness, raised her chin defiantly.  “No.”

Without hesitation, he shoved her backward onto the bed. She fell, hair tumbling over her face and shoulders, obscuring her vision.

“What kind of man are you to take a woman against her will?”  She hissed, shoving hair out of her eyes.

“You are only fooling yourself if you believe that.” His gaze travelled over her coolly as he came to stand before her.

He only gave her an arrogant smirk, as the realization of his implication dawned on her. Arousal tingled beneath his robes as she raised a brow in challenge, no longer hiding her barely clothed body from his view.

Ondolemar was pleased with himself that he was able to have such a firm hold over the primal urges raging within him as his eyes roved over her bare flesh.  The hunger between his legs grew as he began to think of the things he was going to do to her body. 

 _All good things come to those who wait.  Make her wait._ __  
  


Neither one would break the gaze and though it was only seconds, it seemed like an eternity before he spoke again. 

“By the end of this night, I will have you on your knees in more ways than one, Nord.” His tone was cold and tiny slivers of rage pierced the veil of desire that had effectively clouded her mind until this point.

“You will come to see who your betters are and you will _beg_ _me_ for mercy.” 

Ondolemar could see the anger and rebellion resurface in her eyes but it only served to enflame his already rampant lust.

“I will _never_ beg, elf.” 

“We shall see.” 

His threat made Sigrun pant with anticipation.  

 _He was the enemy and she wanted him._   There was no longer a need to deny the facts. 

Ondolemar, for as long as he waited to have her, was in no rush. He was relishing his position of power, circling the bed, watching her, taking in the detail, drawing out the moment. Sigrun followed him with her eyes and quickly licked her dry, swollen lips.  Though it was only a subconscious action, she couldn’t help but hold her breath when she saw his eyes linger on her mouth before dropping downward to her breasts. 

She let out an involuntary breathy sound and it seemed to be the only affirmation Ondolemar needed to continue.

Without warning, he pulled her up against him.  Sigrun’s eyelashes fluttered as he lowered his mouth to hers once again.  This time he was gentle, kissing her as if they were lovers, stroking his fingers through her hair as he held her face.  His lips were warm.  She could smell the clean fabric of his robes and some sort of inherent, potent maleness lying beneath his haughty facade.  He whispered sweet, cajoling words against her lips in a language she did not understand. Sigrun found that it did not matter, the effect was the same. 

Ondolemar’s lips played with her own before taking one of his still gloved hands and slowly with one finger, traced a nipple until it formed into a hard aching point. His mouth traveled downward over her throat and Sigrun melted as he nipped that sweet spot between her neck and shoulder.  She wanted to writhe away from his touch, from the wrongness of it all but instead she was gasping in pleasure, slowly succumbing to the sensations he was coaxing from her body.

Sigrun failed to suppress a moan when his hand pulled down her breast band and he lowered his head to her breasts before gently taking a nipple into his mouth. He flicked his tongue over it until her breath came in rapid bursts.  The heat between her thighs roared into an inferno as he bent her backward onto the bed, his mouth ravaging the other breast.

It had been too long since he’d had such a beautiful woman naked before him and far, far too long since he’d touched one. Ondolemar buried his face against her, inhaling the sweet scent on her skin, allowing himself a moment to drown in her presence. He pressed his lips in soft, fevered kisses over her body. 

Feeling himself slip, he pulled away. The question lingering in Sigrun's eyes affecting him more than it should have. 

“Please…I-I want…y...”  It was a whimpering plea and Ondolemar did not need her to finish the sentence to understand what she wanted. It was hard to contain his elation but he persevered. He always did.  


“You are wearing far too much clothing for my preference.” The tone of his voice was almost cruel before an amused smile passed over his features, dousing any panic she had begun to feel. 

And without another word, his fingers lit up in flames. 

Seeing the alarm in her eyes, Ondolemar hurried to reassure her, “I did not go through all the trouble of carrying you to my bed, to burn you alive.  Given your race’s predilections, I’m quite sure you’re ignorant of the fact that magic can be quite a powerful enhancement in the bedroom.  Now, lay back.” 

Sigrun obeyed, to her surprise.

The aroused mage lowered his flaming fingers towards her body. She slammed her eyes shut, bracing for the pain but she only felt a warm line of heat trace from her chest to her waist and the smell of burned fabric slowly sliding off her skin.  
  
Her small clothes had been all but singed off and now she lay completely bare to the elf’s gaze. Her body was already beginning to respond to being so subdued. Her eyes met his briefly and then she looked away in shame. She knew she was betraying everything she ever stood for and she was helpless to stop herself now. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes.   
  
Ondolemar sucked in a breath sharply at her nakedness. She was more beautiful than he had ever imagined. Silvery-white hair, so long and thick, was splayed around her, wreathing her blushing face. Her body was rounded and curved in all the right spots; pale, pink nipples on young firm breasts and a taut, flat tummy. He took in the white silken limbs that were spread and helpless. Then his gaze fell hungrily to the dark nest of curls between her legs with just a hint of pink peeking through. His cock throbbed at the thought of pressing into that sweet little sex. He’d dreamt of it a thousand times by now. He felt himself strain uncomfortably against his clothes.   


Slowly, as if inspecting a rare piece of art, his hand traveled down over her smooth belly, brushing just the tip of her mound, hovering but not touching. He looked to her face. Though her cheeks were stained red with shame, something else was there in her eyes… desire, perhaps? Anticipation? 

He only chuckled and continued to delicately trace patterns over her quivering flesh, first with his fingers, then with his lips and tongue.   
  
He slid his hand over her thigh, tracing over the calf and down to her delicate ankle. Such beautiful legs, he thought; strong but still feminine.  
  
With an even more deliberate pace, he stroked the other leg much the same way and kept at it until he reached her sex again.   
  
Sigrun twisted and attempted futilely to close her thighs against his touch. She didn’t want him to see that her traitorous body had responded to his ministrations. Tears of humiliation rolled down her cheeks when he gently parted her nether lips and made a deep throaty growl at her all too evident arousal.   
  
“Your body betrays you, little heretic.” Ondolemar derided in a velvety tone. He teased her swollen clit with the tip of his finger and when she was completely slick, he pressed two leather clad fingers into her. A wave of pleasure washed over Sigrun as he softly explored her folds. His fingers were long and the gloves gave them a deliciously thick feeling. She still struggled but her efforts had grown considerably weaker at his continued probing.   
  
He began to slowly move his fingers inside of her, stretching, opening and hitting spots she didn’t know she had, his thumb softly grazing her clit.   
  
He stood looking down at her, shrouded in shadows, she could not see his eyes or expression. He was still in his full Thalmor regalia and she was completely naked and exposed before him.  It was not a situation she thought she’d ever find arousing but it was that realization that began to push her over the edge.

 _Naked and at his mercy._  
  
By the Gods, she was tight, he thought, as he felt her envelop and squeeze his fingers. Would she even fit him when the time came? He pushed in further, panting with breathless desire now. He reached down to adjust himself, feeling his own thick sex throb with need. For the briefest of carnal moments, he thought of just taking her then. He didn’t just want her now.  _He needed her._

He stopped himself short with a quick self-chastise.

_No. Rutting like a barbarian for mere minutes was not how the Altmer made love once they finally decided to do so._

_Show her._  
  
Sigrun felt the tension build below and soon she was no longer fighting against him or herself. She had tried desperately to not feel what his fingers were doing to her body. Her pride, up until this point, refused to allow her to enjoy it. She had not wanted to submit to this elf.  
  
  
Ondolemar had sensed her inward struggle and was having none of it. He sent a jolt through his fingers with just enough magicka to get them humming with energy.   
  
Sigrun was not prepared for that. Her eyes flew open at the sweet vibrations against her slickened and swollen sex.

“Ahhh, there we go.  See? Magic isn’t so bad after all, now is it?”  His voice was a like silky caress as he watched, his eyes on his fingers driving into her more deeply, his thumb still teasing at her clit.  


 “By Auri-El, you are a beautiful little thing.” She opened her eyes and stared into his, silently pleading with him.  “Come for me, Sigrun.”  
  
Her eyes fluttered closed and she lay there languishing in his caresses against her flesh. She bit her lip and cried out softly in pleasure. Something about the sight of her enjoyment only made Ondolemar long for her even more. He ground his teeth at the sight and sounds she made.

“Don’t you see? We Altmer are supreme in every way. You cannot deny it.  Come undone by my fingers, little heretic.”

Sigrun was instantly angry again. Ashamed that she’d let herself falter for even a moment. What kind of Nord was she now? A few strokes between her legs and she was rendered helpless?  
  
She tried closing her legs against the onslaught of pleasure but he continued to work her. With all of her attempts at twisting away, trying to deny the validity of his claims, his fingers suddenly found a particularly pleasurable spot and she shuddered in ecstasy.  She stopped thinking of anything else, purely concentrating on the pressure building inside of her. She was sighing and moaning, greedily wanting the pleasure his fingers were generously providing. 

The tight ache in her loins began to uncoil, threatening to release.  She felt herself slipping and despite her struggles against it, she was soon bucking her hips, spreading her legs as wide and pushing her sex onto his fingers. He fluttered them deliciously inside of her, fingers still buzzing with magic. His thumb was now rubbing vigorously against her swollen lips and clit.  She threw her head back, lost in desire.

“Yes, just like that.”  He growled, watching hungrily as she impaled herself on his hand over and over again.  His own cock was so hard; it was throbbing in pain.

For Sigrun, there was no stopping now and she continued grind against him.  With one well timed stroke of his thumb, she was about to tip over the edge.  He denied her the second stroke and with a laugh, yanked his fingers cruelly away from her warmth.

She cried out in frustration.   
  
He smiled; all full of smug superiority. “You didn’t think this was going to be that easy, did you?”  



	9. Wanton Little Harlot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From her perspective, Ondolemar showed no outward signs of feeling anything other than mild amusement at her wanton display from a few minutes ago. It brought a tangible sense of shame to her that she could be so easily manipulated. Then again, perhaps it was little more than obliviousness on Sigrun’s part that she did not understand an Altmer’s unfailing ability to present a flawless façade of indifference; this was especially true for one identifying as a member of the Thalmor. Had she been more familiar with elves, she may have noticed the slight give in his composure, the tenseness in his shoulders and the heaviness of his breath as he turned away from her gaze.

“You bastard Elf,” Sigrun choked out between breaths.  “Is that the best you Thalmor can do?”

“It seemed rather effective from my perspective.”  Ondolemar kept his eyes averted and busied himself with adjusting the wrist cuff of his robe.

She wanted to throttle him for his arrogance. Had she not been so debilitated from the denial of her release; she would have smashed her fist across his jaw.

Sigrun sat up, silver eyes narrowing at him in barely contained fury.  “Is this the big secret behind the Thalmor methodology?  Sexual torture until your victim agrees to forswear Talos?”

Ondolemar gave her a cold smile and shrugged dismissively, as if they were only having a mild disagreement over afternoon tea.  “How predictable of a human to assume we have but one method at our disposal.  It is almost as if it’s beyond your comprehension that there may be different approaches to achieving a desired end result.”

From her perspective, Ondolemar showed no outward signs of feeling anything other than mild amusement at her wanton display from a few minutes ago.  It brought a tangible sense of shame to her that she could be so easily manipulated.  Then again, perhaps it was little more than obliviousness on Sigrun’s part that she did not understand an Altmer’s unfailing ability to present a flawless façade of indifference; this was especially true for one identifying as a member of the Thalmor.  Had she been more familiar with elves, she may have noticed the slight give in his composure, the tenseness in his shoulders and the heaviness of his breath as he turned away from her gaze.

 “Oh?  Then tell me what the desired ‘end result’ is from keeping me chained to your bed?”

Her pulse leapt as he turned around to look at her.  “I believe I made that quite clear.”  He walked over to her and lifted one of her wrists, “Though, I fail to see any evidence of chains.”

Ondolemar gave an amused snort as her cheeks grew pink under the implication of his statement.  He slowly meandered toward the window and watched as the snow fell softly outside.

“In all fairness, I did warn you that you would pay for interfering in my affairs, did I not?”  He closely inspected the threading on his gloves with an apathetic air.  “Do not feign shame and outrage now, human.  You knew full well there would be consequences for your ridiculous display of ‘heroism’.”  He raised a mocking eyebrow at the last word.

“I saved a man from wrongful imprisonment.  I do not regret it.”

“And it brought you here.” 

Sigrun fell silent, not quite understanding the meaning behind his words. 

Ondolemar remained unmoved from his position by the window.  The tightly drawn threads of his restraint beginning to snap one by one as he watched her rise from the bed, bare to his gaze.

“I do not regret that either.”  It was whispered so softly, Ondolemar was sure had there been any other noise in the room, he would have missed it.

Sigrun found herself frozen in place as he quickly closed the distance between them, his hooded face only partly visible in the moonlight.  She flinched when he hovered over her and said with a menacing snarl, “Do not play games with me, Nord.”

Despite his words, his breathing was heavy again and Sigrun instinctively knew he needed only confirmation of her admission.

Limpid pools of silver stared back up at him, she was panting heavily with anticipation.  The unfulfilled ache in her sex was beginning to rekindle at his closeness.   The words she uttered were no lie.

There was only silence as he stared down at her for several moments.  The slight flaring of his nostrils was her only indication that he was feeling anything more than frustration.

Before she could inquire as to what his intentions may be, the mage was frantically unclasping his leather gloves at the wrist and with a quick tug from his teeth, his bare hands were free. 

Slowly, with the knuckles of one hand he brushed her cheek, smoothing away an errant curl. The warmth of his bare skin on hers made her shiver involuntarily. She closed her eyes and sighed into his caresses, not wanting him to pull away again. 

“I do not want to hate you.” 

“I know.”  It was all he could say.

“If you recall, Nord,” He began, his voice low and hoarse as he continued to stroke her skin.  “I made two promises.  I have fulfilled the one to punish you.”  He tilted her head back and whispered against her lips, “The other was to pleasure you.”

For the first time in several decades, Ondolemar stopped thinking of the Thalmor, of his duties, of his vows, of the war and the complications of politics. 

Golden fingers swept gently over pale skin, teasing her back into a desperate state of arousal.  Sigrun was not aware he was guiding her back to the bed until the back of her knees hit the mattress.  He pressed his mouth to hers, bruising her lips as evidence of his own desires swelled beneath his robes.

“Now let me keep my promise.”

He kissed along her throat and nipped at her delicate skin. Though he was still in his robes, Sigrun could feel the weight of his hard cock pressing against her thigh. The contrast of him being so clothed while she was so bare made her wet with desire.  


She fell back completely onto the bed as his mouth traveled further down over her breasts.  He took one pink nipple into his mouth and flicked his tongue over it until she was gasping beneath him; her grip white-knuckled on the fabric of his hood. He then moved to the other, giving it the same tormenting little licks and flicks; his fingers softly tweaking and teasing the one he just left. The cold buckles of his robes pressed against the warm skin of her stomach and she felt his thigh roughly nudging between her knees, spreading them.  
  
Ondolemar, sensing her increasing arousal, reached down between their bodies and began to softly stroke the satiny skin of her inner thighs, moving upward through the downy curls, still damp from his earlier attentions. He nearly came undone when she again opened wide for him, shuddering and moaning as his bare fingers played gently with her lips. 

Ondolemar drew in a breath between his teeth at touching her for the first time without his gloves, just like he had in his dreams.  The head of his sex began to weep and throb painfully with anticipation. He willed himself to remain in control as he spread languid kisses over her stomach, breathing heavily against her skin.

His fingers continued to gently stroke her velvety folds until she was writhing against him, her fingers flexing, wanting to grab on to something, anything. Her body was begging him for what her mind would not allow.  
  
Ondolemar dropped down to his knees and pushed her legs further apart.  Starting at her ankles, he began pressing fevered kisses along her long limbs all the way up to the insides of her thighs. Softly licking, kissing and biting his way up until he was nearly at her sex and then back down again, each time drawing closer to the place she wanted him most. 

He rested his hands on her thighs and softly nosed her curls, the scent of her arousal sending deep throbs of yearning through his cock. With a primitive growl, he hungrily pressed his mouth to her open and exposed sex. He licked her lightly at first, giving gentle, teasing laps at her labia.  Though his own body begged for him to urge things on, he took his time, languishing in the pleasure gave her.  Her soft sighs and restrained cries, pushing him to take her further.  He never rushed, sex was something to be enjoyed and perfected.  This is what he would show her.

He gave her a long lick and Sigrun cried out with shuddering moan. The sound went right to his cock and Ondolemar groaned against her. He knew she was slowly coming undone when he used the fingers of one hand to hold her lips open and she gasped. He then slowly teased her bud with the tip of his tongue and danced it around her entrance, sweeping her wetness up and back over her swollen center again. He pressed one finger into her tight folds, sighing as her heat enveloped them.  
“Oh gods, yes…” She cried, arching against him. He slid another finger in, and gently stroked at her shivering walls while he continued working her clit with his tongue.   


By this point, Sigrun was heavily panting and her moans had become cries, a desperate plea for him to continue. Ondolemar wasn’t sure he could be more aroused until he pressed his tongue in deeper and she pushed in closer to him and held him against tightly against her sex with a small hand pressed to the back of his head.  
  
With a throaty growl, he shoved her legs up over his shoulders before diving back in to move at a more frantic pace, flicking his tongue over her sex and kissing at her swollen lips. A sob caught in Sigrun’s throat and he felt her tighten against his fingers. He drove them against her harder; his other hand moving down to unfasten his robes.  Her thighs began to tighten around his neck but he did not relent in his efforts.  He put one hand around his cock and began to pump furiously as he pleasured her.  Never in his entire life had he been so absolutely aroused.

_And with a Nord no less._

His inner frustration and lust spurred him on until she was writhing against the sheets and no longer withholding her cries of ecstasy.  Without warning Sigrun felt herself at first tense up, then slowly uncoiling, white-hot heat spreading through her body until the pleasure reached a crescendo she never knew imaginable. When she felt she could take no more, something inside of her broke, causing her hands to claw at the sheets above her head before shattering into a thousand tiny pieces of herself, throbbing, breathless and… satisfied.

Ondolemar gently slid out from under her legs and rose before her.  She had one arm thrown over her eyes and he could not accurately pinpoint what she was thinking.  More surprising, was that he cared at all.

He watched her body still laboring to recover from the release he’d just given her and slowly unhooked the clasps of his robes. 

He sank down on the bed next to her and slowly ran and hand up along her ribs to her breasts where he teased her nipples to pliant peaks once again.  Sigrun removed her arm and stared up at him with beautiful liquid eyes.  His fingers softly traced her full pink lips as they locked gazes for what seemed like an eternity, both understanding the grave error they were about to make. 

She made up her mind that after tonight, she would do her best to never see him again.  With her abilities and connections, it was not going to be a difficult endeavor.  With that thought in mind, Sigrun needed no further encouragement.  She reached up and slid one finger under his hood and pushed it back from his head.  She smiled as she watched him struggle for a moment, stiff and uncomfortable before he finally gave in and closed his eyes, allowing her hand to gently drift downward over his bearded jaw.  As she continued traveling downward, his eyelids fluttered and held his breath, still uncomfortable with her affection. When she finally stopped and rested a small hand against his chest, he exhaled and opened his eyes.

“Your heart is beating so fast, elf.” She murmured softly.  Afraid she was mocking him, he grabbed her painfully by the wrist and pulled her hand away, inwardly chastising himself for allowing her to touch him so intimately. 

A cruel scowl twisted his features as he attempted to rise from the bed.

“Wait!” Sigrun sat up and took his own hand and placed it tightly against her breast, just over where her own heart was throbbing.  “You did not let me finish.  Mine is the same… see?” 

He showed no outward signs of emotion as he searched her face, his eyes fell to his large hand resting against her chest, the wild hammering of her heart was the only indication of her sincerity.  Before he could stop himself, his lips were on hers.  This time, she kissed him back, no longer withholding, matching his ferocity with her own.

She breathed heavily against his neck, savoring him, pressing her soft lips against his throat and chest.  His golden skin was so perfect, she thought, and warm.  He stroked her hair softly as she kissed his skin, threading his long fingers within the silvery tresses.  She buried her face against his neck and pulled him down on top of her by his loose hanging robes.  


They tumbled onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and lips. In a moment of passion, Ondolemar grabbed her arms and pinned them on either side of her head. He stared down at her, his green eyes blisteringly hot with desire. When he spoke, it was through his teeth and his voice was deep and hoarse, “Wanton little harlot.”

Taking his words as a form of encouragement, Sigrun reached down and slipped her hand within his silken trousers.  She gave a slight gasp when she freed his large, weeping sex from its confines. He was thick, long and throbbing. Almost immediately, her sex quivered with the need to have it fill her.  
  
Ondolemar shuddered and gave an appreciative groan as she began to softly stroke along his shaft.  He looked down and watched her work his rosy gold member in her small hand.  Never had he had to work so hard to maintain his self-control.

For Sigrun, watching him try to keep his composure was fascinating.  The flaring of his nostrils, the heaviness of his breath as he struggled for control only urged her to continue. She was rewarded with a sharp hiss through his teeth when she took the moisture from his tip and spread it over the head of his cock.

“Enough.” 

“Will you not allow me to return the favor?”

“Not tonight.”  The words were uttered hastily as he yanked the rest of his robe off, revealing a swath of summer gold skin.  He climbed over her, pinioning her beneath his weight. 

He pushed her thighs open and nudged his tip against her folds.  He gave an involuntary growl when he felt just how wet and ready she was for him.  He reveled in just being within her for a moment; pulsing his sex to stretch her more tightly around him.  She shivered and moaned against his shoulder. He hoisted her leg up around his hip and began to move within her slowly at first, giving her a moment to adjust to his length.

“Again,” Was all she could muster.  Sigrun rose up to meet his thrust, giving him the exact angle of entry she needed and within a second he had plunged himself more deeply into her soaking sheath.

“Again,” She croaked and he pulled back out and obliged.  Over and over and over until she was no longer panting from the discomfort of his size.  When she began to sigh, he started grinding his hips against her and pressed into her with deep, languid, circular motions. Sigrun was now urging him with soft mewling sounds of pleasure right against his ear. She brought her other leg up around him and began lifting her own hips into his thrusts, squeezing her walls against his rigid length.

He watched her dark lashes flutter over the smoldering silver of her eyes; her lips gently parting in sighs and moans as her ardor began to build. Her pale skin was now flushed in a rosy hue and sweat beaded on her brow. She arched her back, forcing her breasts forward and he quickened his pace. His mouth descended down over her lips and throat, hoarsely groaning against the delicate flesh there, losing himself in the moment.  He lifted his head and pressed his lips to her nipples, sucking, licking and biting until she was crying out.   
  
Ondolemar could not keep himself contained much longer. He began thrusting into her savagely and her soft little sighs became loud, frantic cries of desperation. Determined, he angled himself up to hit that sweet spot he’d found with his fingers earlier and quickly reached down between their sweat slicked bodies to play with her swollen bud. Within seconds she clamped down on him with a sensuous wail, her nails digging into his back as her body quivered around him.   
  
He gave her no time to recover from this release, he continued to plow into her convulsing body, pinning her arms above her as he kissed her, making up for the all weeks of fantasizing he’d done.  He wanted to remember this, but importantly, he wanted her to remember. 

Originally, he wanted to fuck her with what he thought was hate and anger. Anger that she was just another heretical, Talos-worshipping Nord who had somehow managed to bring him nothing but longing and despair.  He had wanted to make her suffer as he did.  He wanted to bring her pleasure only to leave her wanting for all of eternity as revenge for what he felt was a personal wrong.

Yet now, as he was hilted inside of her, everything had changed.  He was shocked to find it was just the opposite.  Everything he had felt from the first day he saw her was flowing outward and there was nothing he could do to stop the onslaught.  She was too beautiful beneath him with her hair stuck to her flushed cheeks, eyes closed and white teeth biting her lip as he speared himself inside of her.  

_He wanted this for all of eternity._

Sigrun’s whimpers were now becoming loud cries, her voice cracking with each thrust. She was lost in the feeling of being owned, taken and possessed in a way she could have never imagined.  Flames licked at the space between her thighs, down and up from the middle, waves of heat crashing into her sex as she clung to him in desperation, not knowing where this fierce pleasure was going to take her. 

Her eyes flew open as he managed to grind another release from her. This surprised Sigrun as it had never happened before. She looked up at him, eyes wide with shock and rode another scorching wave of pleasure until she was completely breathless. As her third wave began to build, Ondolemar began to slam into her, searching for an end to his own torment now.

He tangled both of his hands in her hair, holding her face tightly between them and kissed her. It was a bruising gesture; she could feel his teeth through his lips and his breath came out in harsh puffs.  A hoarse bellow surprised her as he came, his seed spilling out between them.  Tired from his efforts, he collapsed his weight against her, still shuddering.

They both laid on the bed spent. Ondolemar resting his forehead against hers.  He kept his eyes closed but Sigrun reached up and stroked his neck.  A gentle coaxing for him to look at her again.

When he finally did so, Ondolemar’s gaze was soft and unguarded.  The throbbing in his chest was so intense, he thought he would be sick.  It was in this moment where he’d always realized she was the most stunning thing he’d ever laid eyes on, but never so much as now, in his arms, underneath him. 


	10. Enemies Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The feeling of shame she had expected to plague her come morn was absent… and yet so was the joy. Something inside of her felt hollow, a void unfilled. One night in the arms of the enemy and she was forever changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one but important. It lays the groundwork for the next chapter I'm working on- which should be significantly longer.

The morning sun rays sparkled through the thick glass windows, waking Sigrun as they touched her face with their gentle light.  She stirred in half-awakened ecstasy, stretching lazily before rolling over to feel for the warm body that had been next to her only a few hours ago.  She yawned sleepily and rubbed at her eyes, trying to blink away the last remnants of slumber.  It was then she realized no one was there beside her.  Fully awake now, she sat up and looked around, only confirming the fact that he was gone.

There was no indication he’d ever even been in the room.  Her eyes fell back to the bed and for a moment, she wondered if she’d been dreaming again.  And there it was.  A note.  Folded carefully and placed on the pillow next to her.

Opening it, several papers fell out as she sank back down into the pillows. Though it was official Dominion letterhead, the note was clearly of a more personal nature.  And as she read the neatly penned words, she could not help but hear his voice as if he was speaking to her directly.

_“Sigrun,_

_First and foremost, please forgive my hasty departure, but after the events of last evening, I find I can no longer remain in your company.  My regret at this realization is not something I can easily put into words.  It is simply what must be done._

_I have long labored under the impression that this peculiar fascination I have with you was something that would eventually pass.  It would appear that I have greatly underestimated your effect on me.  Though I doubt the propriety of such a confession, considering our vast and innumerable differences, I felt it necessary to make an exception in this case._

_As you well know, our current political alliances do not allow for such illicit liaisons.  The pressing matter of war is not one that is easily overlooked for personal pursuits, no matter how much one may desire them.  I will assume that you have also come to the same conclusion as I and therefore, it is not necessary for me to explain the particulars of this decision._

_By the time you read this letter, I will be on my way back to Markarth to resume my duties as Commander of the Thalmor Justiciars.  Though I do enjoy your company far more than is appropriate for a Mer of my station, my loyalty will always lie with the Dominion.  Please bear this in mind should we ever happen to cross paths in the near future; though I highly suspect we will not._

_I would urge you to remain in the safety of Eastmarch for as long as you are able.    I have enclosed your pardon papers to avoid any further… misunderstandings.  Please use them at your discretion.  They should curtail any Dominion officers from attempting to detain you again._

_Before you leave, please look beneath the pillow upon which this note was laid.  Consider it a personal offer of peace._

_Please stay safe._

_Ondolemar,_

_Head Justiciar of the Third Aldmeri Dominion_

_&_

_Thalmor Commander of Markarth, The Reach and Surrounding Territories”_

Sigrun ran her fingers over the place where he signed his name.  Elegant and subdued.  A promise was hidden in that signature.  What it was, she could not say.

His titles were pre-printed in shimmering Dominion gold and their officiousness seemed grotesque in comparison with the stilted intimacy of the letter.  The attempt was earnest but it was obvious it was not his nature.  

She set aside the letter and lifted his pillow.  Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill outward over long lashes as she saw what lay beneath the pillow.  She didn’t know if she loved or loathed him in that moment, but as she slowly lifted her father’s amulet and held it to her breast, all she could do was silently mouth words of gratitude.  The relief at having her one treasure returned was more than she could have ever hoped for, especially from him. She wondered at what made him change his mind as there seemed to be no indication of any sympathy felt for her plight. She was still a heretic in his eyes after all was said and done. 

Sigrun tied her amulet back around her neck and rose to dress.  The feeling of shame she had expected to plague her come morn was absent… and yet so was the joy.  Something inside of her felt hollow, a void unfilled.  One night in the arms of the enemy and she was forever changed.

After dressing, she read his letter one last time before stuffing it within her jerkin.  Her eyes drifted over the bed they had shared, the memory more painful than she expected.  She knew he was right.  The decision to keep their distance was the wisest course of action.  However, it did not come without its price. She silently wondered if he felt the same.

Walking out the door, she grasped the pendant of her father’s amulet tightly, falling easily into her old habit of centering her thoughts with it in hand.  With the clarity of day scorching away the remnants of last night’s memory, Sigrun was determined to continue on with whatever purpose the Gods had in store for her.

\---------- 

Things had not been so different for Ondolemar.  He returned to his post in Markarth without much fanfare and had been completely intent on resuming his obligations to the Thalmor.  The days had quickly turned into weeks.  The dreary grayness of his life in its current state only further cemented his feelings of misery and bitterness. 

Lorandil, the youngest of the two mer charged with Ondolemar’s protection, noted a distinct callousness that had not existed before his commander’s sojourn in Solitude.

As a matter of fact, he was utterly relentless in his hunt for Talos worshippers and exacted his vengeance with a brutality his men were not accustomed to seeing in their commander.  The dozens they had recently shipped off to Northwatch Keep were a testament to the fact that he was no longer willing to wait for proof but merely arrested on suspicion. 

To their surprise, there were times when Ondolemar even carried out the punishments himself.  He had previously prided himself on his superior diplomacy skills and always felt like torture was a “rather barbaric” methodology; though a necessary means to an end in certain situations.  He often looked down on the Mer tasked with performing such duties and yet lately, he seemed more than pleased to take matters into his own hands and extract whatever information he could, through whatever means available.  Worse yet, his men noted that he seemed to get a certain enjoyment from hearing the agonized screams of pain as he seared the flesh of his victims.  This change in their commander was disconcerting as there seemed to be little explanation for it.

About a month after his return, a mild rebellion broke out in Markarth as a result of Ondolemar’s uncharacteristic heavy handedness.  It took less than two days before the dissenters were dispatched with ruthless expediency.  The memory of that disaster was still fresh enough in the minds of the citizenry that when he finally dismantled the shrine to Talos in the middle of their city, not one person moved to protest.  Not even the Jarl.

Now in the quiet of his chambers, Lorandil watched Ondolemar curiously as he sat at his desk and quickly scratched out several more warrants.  The hard lines around his mouth were more apparent than usual.  Something had changed him and not for the better.  The young mer wanted to ask.  He wanted to know his commanding officer was well but the genuine respect he felt for Ondolemar was more than enough to keep his questions at bay. Discussions of a personal nature were not something Altmer engaged in with anyone other than family. 

“Have them rounded up in the morning,” Ondolemar said, handing Lorandil the stack of warrants and jarring him from his thoughts.  “I want them off to Northwatch by sunrise.  You should have no trouble from Igmund this time.”

Lorandil saluted his Commander and quickly went off to make sure the arrangements were made.

Ondolemar watched the door close behind his guard before his sat back in his chair.  He pulled his hood back and unbuckled the clasps on his leather vestment.

His head ached and the exhaustion he felt went bone deep.  He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and shut his eyes. Even now back in his role as Thalmor Commander, his desk strewn with papers condemning the heresy he was so intent on purging, he could not stop himself from thinking of Sigrun.  He gave a sigh of resignation as he surrendered to the memory. The idle time spent shuffling paperwork this evening did nothing to quell his wandering mind.  There was simply not enough for him to do today.  

He looked back at the door, making sure it was locked before he reached for his cloak. He stared at it, hesitantly holding it before him.  It had been two weeks since he last engaged in this momentary weakness but he could no longer stop himself from doing what he was about to do. 

Her smell still lingered on the fabric; as a reminder, akin to a fading ghost, just a mere whisper of something he knew he could never have.  He pressed his face into the soft wool and breathed her in, the ache within him stirring somewhere deep.  No matter what he had done since his return, nothing had alleviated this emptiness he felt.  The faint essence of vanilla and wildflowers flooded his senses and he groaned softly as the need within him became palpably physical.

Stendarr have mercy on him.  He loved her.


	11. Sigrun's Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valyn was more than curious as to who the man was that Sigrun seemed so distressed over. It was unlike her to seem so miserable and lovesick. Sigrun was beautiful and aloof; it was a combination most men found alluring. As an unintentional side effect, she had men chasing after her for most of her adult life. As far back as Valyn could remember, Sigrun had never shown much serious interest in anyone in particular. Her preferences had seemed to change from week to week, leaving behind a wake of heartbroken and jilted lovers. To put it simply, Sigrun was never a woman who fretted over men.

The passing of time had moved more slowly for Sigrun than it had for Ondolemar.  Upon coming home to Windhelm, she quickly determined she needed to avoid her cousin and his warmongering.  Instead, she had elected to return to High Hrothgar and spend time learning new words of power under the tutelage of the Greybeards. 

Ulfric would not begrudge her this small reprieve from duty. He, of all people, knew of the importance of such words.

Much like a dragon, Sigrun had felt at home high in the mountains, where she could observe the rest of the world in solitude.  Her soul found peace in the snow and its bitter, biting winds.

Valyn knew, at the time, not to question Sigrun’s reasons for leaving.  She had a great many burdens since learning of her identity as a Dragonborn and they weighed heavily upon her.

There had been a lull in the dragon sightings, but instinctively Sigrun knew that it was only the calm before the storm and she needed to be prepared.  The enigmatic leader of the Greybeards seemed share her thoughts because a month hadn’t yet passed when Arngeir came to her with a request from the man himself*.  Before she could continue with her studies on the Way of the Voice, she needed to retrieve an item to prove she was, in fact, ready to fully embrace their teachings. 

Sigrun had returned to Eastmarch reluctantly but not without a purpose.  She’d spent less than a day home before she and Valyn headed to Ustengrav to retrieve the horn of Jurgen Windcaller.  Tomb raiding was not something she feared, she had often stolen various baubles as she needed from the catacombs beneath Windhelm.  After all, what use did the dead have for emeralds and rubies?

This old tomb was nothing like the one in Windhelm. It was alive, she could feel it in her senses and it made her skin creep. Her ancestors judged her violation of their sacred space.  They were still there, serving their dragon masters.  In the shadows, things moved and slithered.  She felt their eyes, she felt their hatred and rage.  The whispers and wails sent chills down her spine, a warning to turn back before it was too late.  Valyn had wanted to leave but Sigrun pressed on, barely able to breathe through the dust and overwhelming stench of death.

Having failed to heed their warning, the Draugr rose from their graves by the hundreds, blind with the rage of the undead and protective of the power they kept hidden. Sigrun and Valyn put forth a valiant effort to drive them back but no number of arrows or blasts of fire proved to be enough. They fell, only to rise again.

In the end, it had proved to be a trying ordeal and they had come out empty handed. All that was left for them was a cryptic note and a miserable sense of failure.

Sigrun and Valyn were soaked and thoroughly defeated by the time they made it back to camp. The weather had done little to improve Sigrun’s mood. The rain wasn’t heavy but it was clinging and damp and carried with it a chill could steal your breath.  It was as if the very sky mocked her efforts.

Valyn pulled off her gloves and stretched cold, aching fingers toward the fire they’d made beneath the canopy of furs.   She shivered as the heat warmed her hands, bringing with it a longing to pull off her sagging wet armor and warm the rest of her skin.

Sigrun winced as she yanked off her sopping cloak and flung it over a tanning rack to dry.  She sat down, her back against the tent and closed her eyes, trying to focus on the soft tapping of rain drops and not the painful burning of her wound.

“You should let me look at that,” Valyn advised, peeling away the fur armor from her body.

“I’m fine.” Sigrun lied.

“No, you’re not, sera.  You’re as pale as a ghost.  Let me see it.”  Valyn said, pulling a soft robe over her head, thankful for the warm, dry fabric.  “We went through that entire ruin before you admitted you were feeling faint. You’re as stubborn as they come and you know it.” 

“I didn’t know if it was from the wound or all the running we did to get out of there.  I didn’t even know one of them had gotten me until we were outside.  That’s when it started to hurt.”

Stubbornness had a lot less to do with it than Valyn realized.

“You just spent an entire month cloistered up with those old men in that mountain, you weren’t exactly ready to go trawling through tombs filled with undead.” The elf said as she untied the laces to Sigrun’s leathers in order to inspect her wound.

“I need that horn for Arngeir if I’m to continue my training. It was my only reason for returning so soon.  It wasn’t exactly optional.” 

Sigrun heaved a sigh, “Instead, for all my trouble, I ended up with a taunting note from someone having beat me to it and an arrow through my ribs. I just want to find out who- **_by the nine_**!”  Sigrun cried, mid-sentence, as the Dunmer put pressure on the reddened and swollen flesh. Valyn crinkled her nose in disgust as pus came squeezing up through the split skin. 

“Hmph.  Just as I suspected. It’s completely infected.” 

“So quickly?”  Sigrun asked, surprised, looking down at the rapidly swelling wound on her ribs.  It had been less than an hour. 

Valyn inspected the laceration closer, her crimson eyes wide beneath the hood of her robe, “Well, this is interesting!  All these tiny veins surrounding the puncture wound are turning green and black.  I’ve never seen something so effective.  Perhaps it is a poison of some sort?    Wonder what could have caused- wait, do you think those arrows were enchanted?  Magicka is capable of this, no doubt.  I cannot imagine that poison would be very effective after a thousand years.  Certainly, not to cause an infection like this… All the chemical properties that made them potent would have- What?” 

Sigrun stared at Valyn with thinning patience, “I know you’re an alchemist and it’s a passion of yours but could you please just heal it?  I’d like to put my date with Arkay off for _at least_ a few more years. Also, it’s starting to feel like a godsbedamned daedra’s kiss.”

“Okay, okay. Let me just get my salves to numb the pain and then I’ll finish healing this, _the proper way_ , before it putrefies further.”

Sigrun decided to relent to Valyn’s wisdom.  She found herself relaxing as the Dark Elf tended to her wound, gently rubbing in ointments to soothe away the pain. It was extraordinarily effective.

Valyn was far more talented with spells than Sigrun had ever been.  Sigrun’s father had always mistrusted magic and forbade Valyn to teach Sigrun anything of value when they were girls.  As a result, it was not often that Sigrun had the chance to watch Valyn work but she always took advantage when the opportunity presented itself.  

Valyn closed her eyes and pressed her cool hands against the wound on Sigrun’s rib.  She began softly chanting in Dunmeri.  Her long, elegant fingers lit up with a shimmering, white film and Sigrun could feel the gash from the arrow begin to stitch itself back together.  The itching was maddening for a few seconds but she held still, knowing Valyn needed her cooperation.

Then she watched in rapt fascination as the wound went from greenish-black and swollen to a simple bleeding gash.  Then it scabbed over and then slowly faded into a tender, pink line.  “Would you like me to leave you scar?”  Valyn asked, smiling, knowing that Sigrun sometimes preferred leaving a scar as a reminder of a battle well fought.

“Not this time, no.  This is a story I’d rather soon forget.  Nords do not want scars that commemorate their foolishness.” Valyn continued to work her magic until the skin was smooth and unmarred.  The whole process had taken maybe five minutes but by the time Valyn was done, it was if Sigrun had never been injured.

“Thank you.”  Sigrun said with genuine gratitude.  She inspected the area where the wound had been with wonder. “Maybe I should actually learn to do that one of these days now that Da isn’t around to berate me for being interested in it.”

“Well, it couldn’t hurt.  Especially for as much trouble as you seem to find yourself in lately. It really isn’t like you, sera.” 

“I know.” Sigrun said with resignation, laying down on her bed roll.  She rested her forearm on her head and worried her lip with her teeth.

“What has you so preoccupied?”  Valyn asked, as she put away her salves. “Do not tell me again that it is your lessons in the Dragontongue.  I know you better than that.”  Sigrun had been more withdrawn since she returned from High Hrothgar and Valyn suspected that meditating on the new words had little to do with it. 

“It’s not easy to say.”  Sigrun’s voice was soft, her Nordic accent more pronounced than usual, as it often was when she was thinking out loud. She turned over, laying on her side and tucked her hands beneath her head.  She sighed and stared into the flickering flames, her face set in deep contemplation.

Silence fell around them, dense and thick. It was several moments before Sigrun spoke again, “I did something I should not have and I’m not sure I understand why.  It is something that I should regret but I do not.  It has always been fairly simple for me to decide what is right and what is wrong. Everything in my life has been black and white with very few shades of gray.”

Valyn never knew Sigrun to be a woman who worried over mundane things.  She had lived through some harrowing experiences in her short life and Valyn, having been raised with her, was well aware of her painful history. 

Sigrun continued, “I have stolen, I have allied myself with shady people, I have even killed when the situation called for it but it was all justifiable at the time.  I have never done these things idly. I did it to survive and they were not hard decisions to make.  But this- this is not a thing I can justify to myself, let alone anyone else.  And it’s such a trivial thing…”

“If it is so trivial, then why are you agonizing over it.  It sounds as if you know what you did was wrong.  We make mistakes.  It happens.  You can only move on and not do it again, if it bothers you so much.”

Sigrun continued to stare into the fire, her gaze unblinking, “See, that’s the thing, I don’t feel that it was wrong.  I would say it was more the opposite.  It felt… strangely right.  It is something indistinct that keeps drawing my mind back to it again, over and over.”

She gave another deep and thoughtful sigh, “We are more than just sides in a war.  We are still mortals who want and desire things regardless of politics.  I have discovered I am no different.”

There was another long pause as Valyn contemplated her words. “Are you in love with someone?  Someone you know your cousin would not approve of?”

“I don’t think so.”  Sigrun shook her head, her voice trembling with doubt, “But then, I don’t even know what being ‘in love’ is like, let alone be able to define it for you.”

_And yet…  he plagues your dreams and you cannot stop thinking of him even while you are awake.  It is no mystery why you were so careless as to take an arrow to your ribs, fool._

“Ulfric would definitely not approve.  It doesn’t matter now anyway. It is highly unlikely I will see him again.”  Even as the words came out of her mouth, Sigrun knew them to be false.  As long as they both remained in Skyrim, the possibility of crossing paths again was inevitable. 

Valyn was more than curious as to who the man was that Sigrun seemed so distressed over. It was unlike her to seem so miserable and lovesick. Sigrun was beautiful and aloof; it was a combination most men found alluring. As an unintentional side effect, she had men chasing after her for most of her adult life. As far back as Valyn could remember, Sigrun had never shown much serious interest in anyone in particular. Her preferences had seemed to change from week to week, leaving behind a wake of heartbroken and jilted lovers. To put it simply, Sigrun was never a woman who fretted over men.

“Being in love is never bad.”  Valyn murmured. “But I understand that circumstances out of your control can make it difficult.”  

She pulled Sigrun to her.  “I know you are hurting, sera.  But I’ll leave it alone.  You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”  Sigrun laid her head down in Valyn’s lap and the elf stroked her hair, just like she when she was a child and had trouble sleeping.   The rain continued to fall softly outside their tent and the two women sat in silence, relishing the warmth of the fire and furs that surrounded them.  Exhaustion crept into Sigrun’s bones and her eyelids began to feel heavy.

She had momentarily considered telling Valyn about Ondolemar but dismissed it as a foolish idea. She knew the elf had no great love for the Thalmor, having been on the receiving end of their viciousness on more than one occasion.

It is hard for most people to separate the individuals from their organization when neither have made any effort to show their more benevolent side; if one even existed where the Thalmor was concerned.  Sigrun suspected that Valyn would be no different and would caution her against such blatant recklessness.

Sigrun wasn’t lying when she had said she could not define what it was she was feeling.  How could you be in love with someone when you loathed everything they represented?

And yet she remembered with vivid clarity the way Ondolemar had looked at her and his failed attempts at hiding it.  She knew there was something smoldering just beneath the surface of that cold, impassive exterior.  She had but one small glimpse of it when he made no effort to disguise his passion that night. It had been a fleeting moment in her life but it was branded into her memory for eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Sigrun has not yet met Paarthurnax and does not know he is a dragon at this point.


	12. The One They Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pressure from Alinor must have been immense given the thinly veiled desperation in her tone. There was no doubt that the emergence of the dragons had hindered much of the Dominion’s plans in Skyrim. The recent uprising in Talos worship was problematic but in the end, it would serve their interests. A Stormcloak victory was more or less exactly what they wanted. Breaking bits of the Empire off one by one…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is a long one! There is a lot of backstory here and lays the groundwork for future chapters. This is mostly focused on Sigrun as she grows into her role as a heroine. Ondolemar and Sigrun are still separated but that's going to change very soon. :) Translations for dragon phrases are at the bottom.

“I think you’re looking for this.” The innkeeper said, handing Sigrun the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller.  “Yes, it was me, I took the horn.  We don’t actually have an attic room but I needed to make sure you were who you said you were.  Can’t trust anyone.”

“I suppose...”  Sigrun said, peering at the woman warily after carefully placing the horn within in her bag. 

Sigrun quickly made an assessment, using her observational skills to feel out whether she had cause to be suspicious.   

The woman was easily in her mid to late fifties and wore a tattered denim dress rife with patches and poorly stitched seams that looked as if they were sewn on by a child. Domesticity was not her strong suit, evidently.  She was short and had coarse, ashy red-blond hair struck through with strands of gray.  Very likely a Breton.  Her face was attractive but a bit on the rough side; not an uncommon sight in the more rural parts of Skyrim.

It was her hands that gave her away however.  They were scarred and worn.  On her right hand, the thick calloused skin between her thumb and forefinger indicated she was someone who had spent many years wielding a weapon. 

Curiously, Sigrun cocked her head, the leather from her cowl falling just above her eyes, “I have my doubts that you are actually an innkeeper here… and I find myself wondering if you plan to tell me what all this is about?  This whole cloak and dagger bit seems a little overkill given the circumstances.”

The woman gave a harsh, smoker’s laugh, “Observant.  I like that.  Name is Delphine and I’ll tell you everything you need to know… eventually.”

“Eventually?”  Sigrun fixed the woman with a snake-like glare. 

“Yes, eventually.”

Sigrun’s patience, already stretched thin, was on the verge of snapping but she managed to keep her voice low while not losing any of the malice. “I think you may want to reconsider, especially since this would be the second time you’ve chosen to waste my time.  You can just imagine my frustration at having crawled through a tomb infested with angry draugr to come out with _nothing_.”

If Delphine was phased by Sigrun’s impatience, she didn’t show it. 

“A contact of mine was supposed to meet you at the Winking Skeever to feel you out, remember?  But you never showed.  He claimed he saw you in the company of Thalmor Agents after an execution and I wanted to make sure you weren’t working with them.  This was my only way.”

Sigrun affected a scowl and folded her arms across her chest, “What do you know about the Thalmor or my dealings with them?”

Delphine looked around the empty room. Her eyes settled on Valyn who was busy chatting with the bartender.  “Why don’t we discuss this somewhere more private.  Follow me.”

What if Ondolemar had sent someone to kill her?  It would be easy enough…  Would he do that? 

_Of course he would._

In addition to a fear of assassins, Sigrun felt momentary panic that even if this woman wasn’t sent to kill her, perhaps she knew about her relationship with Ondolemar and what transpired that night in Solitude.

Sigrun hesitated and chewed at her lip.  She had a dagger in her boot and one knife strapped to her thigh.  If there was one thing she’d gotten good at, it was evading people who wanted her dead.

She gave a subtle to signal to Valyn and followed the Breton into the back room.

“Most people don’t usually see through my innocent innkeeper act.”  Delphine said as she closed the door behind them.  Sigrun kept her back to the wall and a safe distance between them.

Delphine proceeded to pull a hidden latch behind a large armoire, slid the faux piece of furniture to the right and revealed a set of stairs heading down into a basement of sorts.  “Look, I’m not going to kill you and I didn’t mean to insinuate that I thought you were working with the Thalmor.  I was fairly certain you weren’t based on the rumors about your involvement with the Stormcloaks, but given my own personal past dealings with them, I needed to take extra precautions.”

“What past dealings?”  Sigrun asked, as she watched the woman disappear down below the inn.

“That is something I can’t tell you just yet.  Come on down.”

Sigrun was mildly surprised as she descended into what seemed to be a base of operations.  Papers were everywhere, armor and weapons were piled in chests, bookcases were filled scrolls and tomes, some looking rather worse for the wear. In the center of the room were several chairs and a table almost completely covered by a large map. 

Intrigued, Sigrun scanned the map and saw hastily scribbled notations over various locations.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”  Delphine came and stood next to her.  “I think I’ve figured out a pattern to the dragons’ resurfacing. They aren't just coming back, they're coming back to life. They weren't gone somewhere for all these years. They were dead, killed off centuries ago by my predecessors. Now something's happening to bring them back to life.”

“What makes you think I can help you?”

“The Graybeards seem to think you’re the Dragonborn and it was a good enough lead for me to at least try to contact you to find out for myself.”

“Okay and what does any of this have to do with me?”

“It’s pretty obvious. If you really are the Dragonborn, I need you to help me stop these dragons from coming back to life.”

Sigrun gave her a wry look, “Coming back _to life_? You realize this just sounds crazy, right?” 

"Ha. A few years ago, I said almost the same thing to a colleague of mine. Well, it turned out he was right and I was wrong.”

“Who is even remotely capable of raising dragons from the dead?”  Sigrun queried, “I thought maybe they were conjured or brought in via some sort of daedric ritual.”

“No, no.  These dragons have been dead for a thousand years.  There is some sort of dark necromancy at work here.”

Sigrun’s curiosity was piqued. “So, how did you manage to figure all of this out?”

“Well, it wasn’t easy and it took several months. That’s why you needed to fetch that tablet for Farengar.”

“Wait, that, was you?”

“Heh.  Yeah.”

“Why hide?”

“Well, I will tell you if you are, in fact, the Dragonborn.  But until I know for sure, I owe you no other answers.”  Delphine paced back and forth anxiously.

“How exactly do you expect me to prove something like that?  I can shout but that’s about it.”

“There have been plenty of people that have learned the Thu’um, it doesn’t make them the Dragonborn.  You only need to look at your ‘High King’ as a perfect example.”

“What about the Graybeards?  Do they often _falsely_ identify a Dragonborn?” Delphine didn’t miss the smug irony in Sigrun’s question.

“You have a point but sorry, I don’t trust anyone or anything unless I have hard facts.  I don’t believe something just because someone says it is, no matter who they are. Even the Graybeards. I need to see it for myself.  I didn’t manage to survive for as long as I have by being naïve but that’s a story for another time.”

Sigrun couldn’t tell if the woman was paranoid or crazy but her nerves were beginning to fray with Delphine’s constant pacing and half answers. 

“You’re supposedly the ultimate dragonslayer, so let’s put that theory to the test.”

“I’ve already taken down a couple of dragons.  One just outside of Whiterun, you had to have heard about that.”

Delphine smiled, “I did. But you haven’t take one down in front of me yet and seeing is believing.” 

She stopped pacing and moved to stand before the map.  “That dragonstone tablet you fetched is a map of ancient dragon burial sites and I cross referenced it against our own map of Skyrim. That part was pretty easy to do, to be honest.  I looked at which ones are now empty and compared them to the ones that are still left intact. The pattern is pretty clear.”  

Tracing the pattern across the map with her finger, she spoke “It seems to be spreading from the southeast, down in the Jeralls near Riften. The one at Kynesgrove is next if the pattern holds _.”_ Delphine stopped and tapped the spot, drawing Sigrun’s attention to the small village just south of Windhelm.

“I know exactly where that is.”  Sigrun was unable to disguise the amusement in her voice.  “I used to play up there all the time as kid.  I always thought those rumors about a dead dragon being buried up there were just local legend.”  She waved off Delphine’s look of incredulity.  “I had an aunt in Kynesgrove.”

“Well good. Now we won't have to spend time searching for it. We should get moving. There's no time to waste."

\--------------------

The icy mist around Kynesgrove settled around them like a whisper.  Bits of it collected around them in wisps, suspended in the overly still air. The fog was just thick enough to hide everything but their immediate surroundings.  The air was eerily quiet and Sigrun felt her blood run cold as she recognized that telltale silence.  She lifted her gaze to the sky, scanning the gray clouds for the beast she knew lurked in their midst. 

She pulled her bow from her back and put a hand on the hilt of her sword.  Waiting.  Her eyes met Delphine’s. A knowing exchange.   She nodded in the affirmative and continued to search the sky…  Something was near. 

As if in response to her thoughts, a deafening shout shattered the stillness around them like a mace through a mirror. 

The dragon was shrouded in the clouds and mist but she could see that it was huge and black and it nearly filled the sky above her.  She felt insignificant in comparison with its own magnificent presence.

Sigrun moved to stand beneath it, Delphine watching her every move.

It turned its head to look down at her, red eyes narrowing in recognition.

“Ful, losei Dovahkiin? Hmmm? Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi.”

Sigrun did not respond.  She only stared at the Dragon with her jaw clenched, pale eyes glaring beneath her hood.  She _knew_ this dragon. 

“Zu’u dahmaan hi nol Helgen.”

Again, Sigrun chose to remain silent, her heart leaping with fear as she was assailed by flashbacks from that day.  This dragon was different from all of the others she had previously encountered.  This dragon was the embodiment of pure evil. This dragon was to be feared. 

Sensing her growing trepidation, the dragon openly taunted her.  “You do not even know our tongue, do you?  Such arrogance, to take for yourself the name of Dovah.”

Sigrun reached within her jerkin and grasped her father’s amulet, trying valiantly to quash her fear. She prayed fervently, in her mind, to Talos.

To her surprise, she received a response; something was with her.  A sexless voice floated through her mind, as though she could hear it while also being aware that it did not actually exist in this realm.

_He is the beginning and the end…_

She slowly strung her bow, acutely aware of her quaking fingers. The voice spoke again and her fear slowly began to ebb.

_Crush the serpent of time…_

Her breaths were rapid and shallow as she shifted so her full quiver of arrows rested against her shoulder blade, easily within reach.  She slipped one from the leather case and held it firm against the bow. 

_Akatosh is watching…  Akatosh sent you…_

She was momentarily plagued with self-doubt but instead of continuing to tremble in fear, she reacted and loosed the notched arrow.  The dragon laughed as it plinked off its black, metallic scales. “Vobalaan joor…” 

Sigrun bristled at the open mockery in its voice, finding strength in her rage.  She pulled out another arrow, trying to gather all of her energy to shout back at the dragon.  There would be no doubt once it heard her voice.

_Only your blood can relight the dragon fires…_

The next arrow whizzed past the dragon’s left wing.  He turned on her in irritation and opened his great maw and let loose a thunderous shout so loud, it sent her flying backward several feet against the trunk of a tree.  It happened so quickly that she felt the breath leave her lungs before the impact. 

The clouds churned above them, bolts of lightning flashing furiously. Thick drops of icy rain began to fall.

“Sahloknir! Ziil gro dovah ulse!”  A crash of thunder.

Sigrun’s ears were still ringing as she crawled onto her hands and knees, trying desperately to stand but the ground below her shook and she could not regain her balance.  She squinted, trying to see through the swirling wind and rain but could not catch sight of Delphine. 

Another crash of thunder sent her to her knees once again as the ground beneath her roiled violently.  She choked on the smell of electricity and sulfur in the air.

Then with dread, she watched as the dragon mound that she had once played on as a child, split apart and collapsed in on itself.  A blood curdling shriek rent the air in response to the great black dragon's call. The once hard-packed dirt shot upward like a geyser, sending chunks of rock and debris to fall around Kynesgrove.  Sigrun threw her arms up to shield herself from the flying rubble.

A boney dragon wing emerged from the mound and Sigrun swallowed a scream as fully intact skeletal dragon pulled itself into view; the black, empty pits of its eyes looking upward in supplication toward the large beast in the sky.  When it spoke, it’s voice was dry and dusty in undeath.  “Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?” 

“Geh, Sahloknir, kaali mir.  Slen Tiid Vo!”  The next crash of thunder was so loud, Sigrun felt it reverberate within her chest.

Sahloknir stretched and roared as the life began to return to her ancient bones.  Worms of sinew and flesh began to wrap around the dragon’s remains. Dry, crusted blood began to re-liquefy and began flowing through veins that were quickly stitching back together.  The dragon was whole within moments and bowed in gratitude to her master. It was as if she’d never been dead for thousands of years.

Alduin issued an order and did not bother to even look in Delphine’s or Sigrun’s direction: “Sahloknir, krii daar joorre.”

The dragon turned her serpent-eye gaze to Sigrun.  “Saraan hi dinok, Dovahkiin.”

It flew into the sky where Alduin had just been and shouted into the wind.   

_It fears you…_

_Feed your hunger…_

_Feel its aching burn…_

_You must satisfy your blood-lust…_

_By the will of Akatosh, tear out its soul and devour it!_

Sigrun’s blood suddenly ignited like wildfire and rushed through her veins. Throbbing, aching, burning.  Where she should feel fear, she felt instead a gnawing urge to consume.  Her hunger became an entity of its own, driving her to slay the winged serpent.

She raised her bow and shouted.  “Fus!”  The dragon’s eyes widened at her Thu’um.  Seeing Sigrun aiming for its gut, the beast circled around, blocking her shot.

“Grah hi hind?  Then you shall have it, little mortal.”

“Yol Toor Shul!”  A torrent of flames came tearing out of the dragon’s gaping maw towards Sigrun, who ducked behind the tree just in time.  She squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself against the fiery draft as the trunk took the brunt of the blast.  She felt the heat envelop her and bits of her hair and cloak were singed.  Opening her eyes, she saw embers from the burnt bark swirling through the air around her.  She suppressed the urge to cough from the smoke but the dragon sensed her presence.

Sigrun felt the dragon land and stomp towards her, the earth shaking beneath its weight. It roared and viciously swiped at the sheltering tree, snapping it half as if it were a mere twig. 

“Hi nikriin los nid Dovah!” 

Sigrun rolled away, dodging the falling trunk and leapt behind another tree, leading the dragon on a chase.  Gasping for air, she pressed her back against yet another tree.  Instinct guided her bow and she quickly dispatched a flurry of arrows towards the beast.   From the corner of her eye, she could see Delphine unleashing a volley of her own arrows. 

The dragon laughed in amusement and shouted another wave of fire in Delphine’s direction.  Sigrun could not see if the woman survived but took advantage of the dragon’s momentary distraction and sent another arrow straight through its eye. 

The dragon roared in pain and shook her head violently. Before Sigrun could send another arrow, the dragon bolted back up into the sky screeching in indignation.  Sigrun knelt down and yanked her quiver from her back.  She quickly pulled out several serrated arrows, shoved them into her belt, saving only one.  She scanned the area, saw no charred corpse and assumed Delphine had to have survived and was also hiding in the woods.

The dragon sent wave after wave of blazing fire until the entire area was blackened and smoldering.  The rain began to fall harder, it was the only thing keeping the entire forest above Kynesgrove from completely igniting into flames.

Sigrun from her vantage point, had a clear shot of the dragon as it flew above them, breathing fire into the trees.  She knelt on one knee, narrowed her gaze, the urge to kill insatiable now, she thirsted for the beast’s soul like a vampire thirsted for blood.  Biting down on her lip, she sent the serrated arrow up and through a delicate tendon on the dragon’s wing. 

It gave an agonizing shout but Sigrun no longer cared to hide.  She walked out from the trees, into the clearing and shouted back at the beast, “Fo Krah!”

She only knew two of the three words but frost shrouded each one and it was enough to render the dragon helpless.  Sigrun fired three more arrows into its belly and the dragon fell from the sky, shrieking as it slid into the dirt, covered with a thin layer of ice.

She limped weakly towards Sigrun and tried biting at her but Sigrun sent another arrow through its throat.

“Alduin… fen du hin sil...”  It gurgled as blood rushed from between its teeth, still not relenting.

Sigrun’s lips curled at the threat.  She wasted no time and grabbed at the blade strapped to her waist, nearly blind with rage and hunger now. 

“I will be the only one devouring souls today.”  She whispered.

The dragon mustered all of its stamina and opened its mouth to send another blast of fire towards the unguarded woman but its fate was sealed.

Delphine watched in shock as Sigrun fearlessly grabbed one of the dragon’s horns and hauled herself up onto the back of its neck.  The dragon bellowed in surprise, thunder cracked around them as it reared up and flapped its wings. 

Delphine was thrown down to the ground by the gusts of wind the dragon stirred up, dirt and rain clouding her vision. 

Sigrun gripped her thighs around the dragon’s neck, straddling the beast as it bucked violently, trying to throw her off.  It turned its head to reach her but found itself at a disadvantage. Its great jaws snapped at the air, just inches away from the pale-haired banshee on its back.   

Sigrun raised her sword and jammed it down between the thick scales into the tender flesh below.  It shrieked in agony once again.  She yanked the sword out and blood spilled out from the beast’s wound, splattering across her face and chest.  Sigrun lifted her blade again and when it turned to look back at her, one eye widening as it watched her blade, slice through its gullet. 

It knew fear in that moment.  It knew, at last, the tragedy of mortality.

Sigrun felt the life leave its crumpling body.  She stood on the corpse, her head thrown back, white hair blowing in the wind.  Victorious.

The wind suddenly picked up pace; leaves, dust and rain blew around them, the tops of the trees swayed violently against the gusts.  Delphine shielded her eyes and squinted against the onslaught of light and wind.

Sigrun’s cloak whipped ferociously against the back of her legs and she spread her arms wide as the life essence from the dragon flowed upward and around her before finally settling into her own blood. 

It was not long before Sigrun jumped down from the dragon’s bones, invigorated, and strode towards Delphine.  Covered from head to toe in blood and mud, she met the older woman’s astounded gaze. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and gave a self-satisfied smirk before arrogantly jamming her sword into the dirt.

"So, you really are... I... it's true, isn't it?”  Delphine could not contain her astonishment.  “Gods above… you really _are_ the Dragonborn!”

Sigrun gave her a lopsided smile, “Was that enough proof for you?”

\-------------------------

Ondolemar stood and stared out of his window, his hands clasped behind his back.  The cold drizzle did nothing to deter the bustling denizens below.  The only notable difference today held from every other day in Markarth, was a visit from the First Emissary.   

“The work you’ve done here in Markarth has been exceptional, Ondolemar.  I hope I haven’t offended you by wanting to see it for myself.”  The First Emissary sat comfortably ensconced in one of his large overstuffed chairs. 

He turned back around to face her, “Of course not.”

“I know from personal experience that Igmund can be a difficult beast to manage, but you’ve brought him to heel quite nicely.”

Ondolemar inclined his head in polite acknowledgement. 

Elenwen sipped the last of her tea and set the cup carefully in the saucer.  “You should be aware, I’ve already sent word back to Alinor regarding your efforts here. I’ve put in a recommendation that you be reconsidered for a more…” Her large golden eyes swept over the drab room, _“distinguished_ post.” Though barely detectable, the note of repugnance in her voice gave her away. 

“I very much appreciate your good word. Unfortunately, our job as Justiciars is not a glamourous one and I have never minded the more difficult posts.  I am only glad to be afforded the opportunity to serve the interests of the Thalmor as best I can.” 

Ondolemar sat down at his desk and inspected the cuticles of his nails, noting with some dismay at how ragged they’d become since his time in Skyrim. 

Subjugating Markarth was a hollow victory.  Then again, nearly everything in his life had seemed rather lackluster lately. There was only one place he’d recently found any joy…

Elenwen watched him curiously before posing a question.  “There is another matter I would seek your assistance with, if you would?”

“I am always at your service, Madam Emissary.”  Ondolemar leaned forward on his elbows and steepled his fingers as she spoke.

“I have received reports from Justiciars, recently, who claim the Nords are growing more emboldened.  If you recall several months ago, the hero that Rulindil mentioned… the Dragonborn?”  She waited for his hesitant acknowledgement of the conversation, “Well, I have it on good authority that they believe this _‘hero’_ has emerged to see them victorious in the war.  As a result, they have begun to openly worship Talos in areas as close as Falkreath Hold and the western parts of The Pale.”

Ondolemar poured himself a glass of wine.  “I’ve never heard something so utterly ridiculous.” He vaguely remembered something Igmund had said about Sigrun being the Dragonborn. He hadn't believed it then and he most certainly didn't believe it now. 

“These reports of an increase in Talos worshipping are troubling.  I need to know if this person actually exists and with your recent successes here in Markarth, you are the only head Justiciar I trust with rooting out whether the rumor has any validity.”

Ondolemar thought for several moments before relenting, “Of course, I will help.  You know I could never say no to you.”  He gave a deep sigh, “I suppose you’ve roused my curiosity enough; though I do go on record as saying I believe Nords are a completely gullible sort.”  He waggled his fingers at the Emissary, “Heroes appearing out of thin air to come help them defeat the _evil Elves_ …” 

Elenwen rolled her eyes at his jesting, “Don’t be cheeky.  This is a serious matter.”  She tapped the wooden arm the chair gently with her nails.  She was finding it difficult to contain her apprehensiveness.  “They also say this Dragonborn can swallow the whole souls of dragons, thereby permanently vanquishing them.  While you may have point about this particular theory being ridiculous, I would have thought the same thing about the dragons were returning but I saw that for myself in Helgen.  I only ask for you to investigate these claims.  Nothing more.”

“Have you seen others?”

 “What?  Dragons?  No, not since that day.  Although I have heard of them showing up elsewhere and lately, with more frequency.  One was recently sighted in the south of Hjaalmarch.  Consider yourself lucky that one hasn’t shown up here.”

Ondolemar leaned back in his chair. “And do what?  Singe the stone a bit?”  He looked down into his glass and made a droll observation, “Not even a fire breathing dragon could relieve me of this nightmare.”

“No, but I can and I shall do my best to get you out of here but I do need your cooperation in this matter.  I urge you to please find out as much as possible as quickly as possible.”

The pressure from Alinor must have been immense given the thinly veiled desperation in her tone. There was no doubt that the emergence of the dragons had hindered much of the Dominion’s plans in Skyrim.  The recent uprising in Talos worship was problematic but in the end, it would serve their interests.  A Stormcloak victory was more or less exactly what they wanted.  Breaking bits of the Empire off one by one…

The Thalmor knew nothing about the dragons and if anything, the entire situation had sent them into a panic- which was highly irregular.  Ironically, it ended up working in their favor as Ulfric managed to escape execution and re-rallied his Stormcloaks, threatening to break, once again, from the Empire.

Ondolemar set down his glass and met Elenwen’s pleading gaze, “You have my word.  If there is such a person as a ‘ _Dragonborn’_ , I will find them.”

“Wonderful.” Elenwen seemed to find comfort in his reassuring tone.  She stood up, straightened her robes and extended her hand to him, which Ondolemar took and looped through his arm.  He escorted her stiffly toward the door of his apartments.  It was a formal and gracious gesture and one very appreciated by elder Altmer females.

The Emissary paused before opening the door and turned to look up at him. “I know you’ve been quite busy with your work here but we’ve missed you at the embassy these last few months.  I am hosting another social and I really do hope you can manage to attend this time.”  She seemed to be genuine in her desire for his presence at her upcoming soirée. 

“Of course, I’ll be there.  You know I always enjoy your gatherings.”  Ondolemar said, the lie rolling off his tongue more easily than he liked. 

Elenwen patted his arm and leaned in, “I know your mother would have been quite proud of your progress here.”

Ondolemar was courteous enough to appear flattered.  “Thank you, Madam Emissary.”

\-----------------------

Back in Riverwood, Sigrun sat draped lazily in a chair, one long leg dangling over the arm as she played with point of her dagger.  She stared at Delphine, waiting. The older woman removed her hauberk and placed it carefully within one of the chests.  “I owe you some answers, don’t I?”

“Yes, you do.” 

Delphine sat down across from her and heaved a sigh before beginning:  "I'm one of the last members of the Blades. A very long time ago, the Blades were dragonslayers, and we served the Dragonborn, the greatest dragonslayer. For the last two hundred years, since the last Dragonborn emperor, the Blades have been searching for a purpose. Now that dragons are coming back, our purpose is clear again. We need to stop them."

“The Blades?  Never heard of them.”

"That’s not surprising. Nobody even remembers our name these days. We used to be known across Tamriel as the protectors of the Septim Emperors. Those days are long gone, though. For the last two hundred years, we've been searching for the next Dragonborn to guide and guard, as we are sworn to do. But we never found one. Until now."

"So, tell me what you know about the dragons coming back."  Sigrun sat up, interested.

“Not a damn thing really.  I was just as surprised as you to see that big black dragon there.  I’ve never heard of such a thing but at least we figured out _how_ they’re coming back.”

Sigrun absent-mindedly twirled the dagger around her fingers and wrist, “I’ve seen that dragon before.  At Helgen.”

Delphine got up from her chair and began her frantic patrolling around the room. “What we need to do is figure out who's behind the dragons, specifically that big one. I personally think the Thalmor are behind it.”

Sigrun’s head snapped up, “The Thalmor?  What makes you think it’s them?”

"Nothing solid. Yet. But my gut tells me it can't be anybody else.”  Back and forth, Delphine paced like a caged lion and Sigrun could hear the leather in her boots creak with each step. “Think about it! The Empire had captured Ulfric. The war was basically over. Then a dragon attacks, Ulfric escapes, and the war is back on. And now the dragons are attacking everywhere, indiscriminately. Skyrim is weakened, the Empire is weakened. Who else gains from that but the Thalmor?"

Sigrun shrugged, “I was there.  Ulfric actually turned himself in.  He wasn’t captured.”

“What?”

“He knows the Thalmor want him to win this war to weaken the Empire.  So, he turned himself in for imprisonment but he was to be granted immunity from the Thalmor in return.  The problem was, the Empire planned to execute him for treason.  Immediately.  They knew of his past with the Thalmor and assumed he was an asset.” 

Sigrun continued, “Unfortunately, he led the rest of us into the trap with him.  We didn’t know at the time and to this day, I am the only one who knows the truth.  He did not think I had survived once the dragon attacked but when I showed back up in Windhelm, battered and bloody, he told me everything I needed to know.”

Delphine looked unconvinced.  “Why would he do that?”

Sigrun hesitated before sharing the next bit of information, “Ulfric Stormcloak is my cousin.”

“I... see.”

Sigrun gave a noncommittal shrug, “My father told me the story. Ulfric was captured by the Thalmor over thirty years ago, tortured and kept as a slave.  When they finally gave him his freedom, they thought they had him in their pocket but they didn’t.  He wanted to get the Dominion out of Skyrim and the only way for him to do that was to cede from the Empire. He never had any intention of actually abandoning the Empire, he just did not want to be bound by the rules of the Concordat. Many Nords agreed. Apparently, the Empire felt differently.”

She sheathed her dagger and swung her leg back over the arm of the chair, “He met Tullius in Bruma and negotiated a parley. The Empire promised him a stay and chance to plead his case but they never intended on actually honoring it.  As soon as we crossed into Skyrim and were well outside of any potential Dominion jurisdiction, they arrested us all for treason and we were sent to Helgen for execution.  They accused him of being a Thalmor plant. The rest of us were just a ragged band of rebels and witnesses to Empire’s treachery. We were to die along with him.” 

“But as you know, Ulfric turned the tables on them and escaped. He reassembled the Stormcloaks, claiming the Empire was rife with corruption and Dominion spies. He no longer cares whether the Dominion crushes the Empire or not.”

“I cannot believe it.”  Delphine shook her head in disbelief. “Then again, Titus Mede II has always been a damn fool when it came to dealing with the Thalmor.  He was never a politician.”

“Maybe but I don’t believe my cousin is either.  He’s a warrior and he thinks too simply.”

“Why do you say that?” Delphine raised an inquisitive brow.

“Ulfric thinks the Thalmor are weaker than they let on.  Their military suffered a heavy loss in Hammerfell and he thinks they cannot fight on two fronts. You see?  He thinks in terms of battle, not politics.  I think the Thalmor will outwit him easily. He had already played right into their hands by letting his rage get the better of him.”

Sigrun had not yet found it in her heart to forgive Ulfric for his foolishness.  “He’s most certainly using the ban on Talos to drum up support against both the Empire and the Thalmor.  It’s effective, you can’t deny that.  After that dragon showed up at Helgen and the discovery I was Dragonborn shortly thereafter, he felt his victory as Skyrim’s new High King was destined.”

She let out a long sigh, weary from the events of the day and the discussion, “I am, if you can believe it, a supporter of the Empire.  I am not sure at all about Ulfric’s sincerity regarding the fate of Skyrim but he is my cousin. I believe he has become selfish and blinded by his thirst for revenge. But, I have a duty to uphold a promise I made to my late father.  If it is my fate to die at Ulfric's side, then I will do so.”

“Fairly honorable for someone who garnered a reputation as a thief.”

“I did what I needed to do to survive.  Unfortunately, old habits die hard.”  Sigrun followed with the woman her eyes.  “Are you going to tell me anything else?  Like how exactly you think the Thalmor have anything to do with this Alduin?”

Delphine relented and pulled a rolled tobacco from her pocket and lit it.  She calmed immediately. “Well, I’m not *exactly*sure but I figure, at the very least they’ll have an idea.”

“And where do you fit in to all of this?”

Delphine slowly blew out smoke.  She closed her eyes as if she were recalling a distant memory. 

"Before the Great War, the Blades helped the Empire against the Thalmor. Our Grand Master saw them as the greatest threat to Tamriel. At the time, that was true. Maybe it still is.  So, we fought them in the shadows, all across Tamriel. We thought we were more than a match for them. We were wrong."

“They defeated you and now you are in hiding?”

Delphine nodded her head, “Yes.  When I was young, our leaders became obsessed with the Thalmor threat. They believed that if and when we found a Dragonborn, we would need to protect her against the Thalmor.  You see, only a Dragonborn can relight the dragonfires in the Imperial City and that would most certainly not turn out well for the Thalmor.”

Sigrun remembered what the voice had whispered to her before she had taken Sahloknir’s soul.  The dragonfires!  She had no way of knowing what any of it meant but perhaps it was in her destiny to meet the former Blades Agent.

Delphine continued, “We fatally underestimated them. They smashed us with ease during the Great War. I was one of the few who was lucky enough to escape.  The rest of my brethren were delivered by the Thalmor, personally, to the Emperor himself." 

"They were spared?"

The Blade frowned with disgust, "No. Their heads were delivered in cart and upended right at the Emperor's feet." 

The lines on the woman’s face seemed all the more pronounced by the warm light of the hearth.  These were clearly painful memories.

Delphine stared absently into the fire, “For a long time, all I cared about was staying alive and taking revenge on the Thalmor when I could. But then the dragons returned. And I when I heard your summons, I remembered that the Blades used to be more than just the Emperor’s guard, we were _dragonslayers_. And we were sworn to protect the Dragonborn, the greatest dragonslayer of all.  It was as if the Gods themselves answered our prayers.  So, now you know why I had to find you."

“After everything the Thalmor did, why would the Emperor allow them the White-Gold Concordat, I’ve never understood.”

Delphine shrugged, "Part of the cost of peace. Emperor Titus Mede saved his Empire at a very high price but it’s like I said, he’s a fool to think it means anything to the Thalmor. They're merely biding their time, mark my words. As part of the deal, Mede had to give up the Blades and outlaw the worship of Talos, whom the elves don’t believe is ‘good enough’ for their pantheon.”  There was venom in her voice now.  “Obviously, that didn’t sit well with the Nords.  Many of them who served under Mede in the Great War felt betrayed. Your father was likely among them. Thirty years later, the Empire ends up with the Stormcloak rebellion on its hands. Like you said, there is no doubt it’s exactly as the Thalmor intended.  Either way, we cannot hope to rid ourselves of the Thalmor or broker a peace between the Skyrim and the Empire with the Dragons mucking everything up."

“So what’s the plan?  Any ideas?”

"If we could get into the Thalmor Embassy… it's the center of their operations in Skyrim... and I know for a fact that the Emissary keeps files in her Solar.  The problem is, that place is usually locked up pretty tight. They could teach me a few things about paranoia...”  She smashed the rest of the rollup into the porcelain dish.  “But, I did hear recently that the Emissary is hosting another party.  It’s our way in.  I want _you_ to go to that party and find out what the Thalmor know about the return of the dragons.”

Sigrun stared at Delphine as if she had grown another head.  “You want what?”

Delphine looked up and stared at Sigrun.  The Blades Agent, seeing the look of shock on Sigrun’s face, continued on with her plans.  “The Thalmor are our best lead.  If they don’t know, they’ll most certainly know who is, but let’s be honest, there is no way they aren’t involved.  It’s far too convenient.  I can smell a Thalmor plot from a mile away.”

Sigrun shook her head emphatically, “Look, when we were supposed to meet in Solitude a month ago, I was nearly captured by them.  That is why your source saw me in their ‘company’.”  Sigrun inwardly cringed at her half-lie.  “I was caught with an amulet of Talos.”  Luckily, the one in question was hidden beneath her leathers.  She had no desire to explain to Delphine why one of the Thalmor had willingly given back a piece of condemning evidence.

“They also know that I am fairly important asset to the Stormcloaks.  However, they do not yet know that I am Ulfric Stormcloak’s cousin or the Dragonborn and I’d rather keep it that way.  If you send me in there, you may as well kill me yourself and deliver them _my_ head.  Somehow, I don’t think that’s how you’d want this to go.”

“After everything I just revealed to you, you’re telling me no?  Am I understanding you?”  Delphine’s tone was growing increasingly waspish as her plans began to unravel around her. 

“Yes.  My answer is no. I have been repeatedly warned by them.  I have narrowly escaped death twice now and I’d really rather not tempt fate a third time.”

“You’re the Dragonborn.  If not you, then who?” 

Sigrun got up from the chair and faced Delphine, her voice vehement with conviction, “Alright, I'll tell you. I am known to one of them.  If he happens to be there and recognizes me, I won’t be of any use to you. He will know I'm a spy.  As much as I would like to help you with this, I just don’t see how it’s possible.  You need to find another way.”

Delphine put her hands up.  “There is no other way.  Do you think he’d even recognize you if we dressed you up and we… changed a few things?”

“You really aren’t getting why this is a bad idea, are you?”  Sigrun found it hard to contain her snark.

Delphine began her frantic pacing again. “If I had another way, I’d go that route but I don’t.  This is our only shot.”

Sigrun sat back down and rested her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands. Delphine could see she was clearly wrestling with the idea. 

“What exactly would you change?” 

Delphine finally sat down and quickly pulled out another paper rolled tobacco, placed it between her lips and lit a match to it.  For several moments, her eyes roved over Sigrun in a cold assessment.  She took a long drag and blew out the smoke through her nostrils, her blue eyes hard.

“You’re very attractive.  It shouldn’t take much to clean you up.  We could change your hair color and dress you up a bit.  Get rid of the blood and war paint… maybe some cosmetics to bring out your Imperial features more.  Yes, I can tell.  Nords don’t have such delicate bone structure.  You’ll look like a Solitude noble. It’s possible that you won’t even be remotely recognizable by the time I’m done with you.” 

Sigrun looked doubtful.

“If you get caught, I’ll get you out.  Simple as that.  Look at it this way, I’ve been successfully hiding from the Thalmor for thirty years.”  She gave a wheezing laugh, “I’m a bit of an expert at thwarting their plans, you could say.  Who is it that would recognize you?”

“It’s the Commander of the Justiciars in Markarth.  Ondolemar.”  Sigrun bit her bottom lip after saying his name, suppressing a shiver at the thought of him.

Delphine took another long drag while she thought; luckily, she had not noticed Sigrun’s involuntary response.

“Heh.  That’s not a familiar name to me oddly enough.  It usually helps if I know the agent as it gives me an edge up on how they conduct their business. But it’s actually not necessary in this case.  I have ways of keeping a Thalmor agent busy, trust me.”  She tapped ash into the small dish on the table.  Sigrun noted with some amusement that it was fairly full.  Delphine sighed, “Yeah, I know… it’s the only thing that has calmed me down over the years and it’s like you said, old habits die hard.  So, will you do it?”

Sigrun waved her off, “Yes, fine, I’ll do it. You just better get me out of there of something goes sideways.” 

\------------------

Ondolemar slept fitfully.  Though his body was relaxed, his mind was tormented. 

_He chased the girl up steps, down steps, through rain and wind, over winding stony bridges, around dark corners, through dimly lit stone hallways.  All he could see through the haze was silvery-white hair so long it reached her hips and when she ran, it streamed out behind her like a moon-kissed banner.  He made to pull her to him but she was always just out of reach._

A knock at the door startled him awake.  He sat up in bed, his breath labored, trying to regain his bearings.  The knock sounded again, only more urgently the second time.  Truthfully, he was grateful for the distraction.  His dreams were growing increasingly more frustrating.

Ondolemar reached for his robe and quickly threw it around his shoulders, buckling it loosely at the waist.  He opened the door to find both Lorandil and Qworyn standing before him, anticipation evident in their stance.

“What is it?”

Qworyn spoke first, “Commander, sir, there are rumors of a Blades Agent in here Markarth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Ful, losei Dovahkiin? Hmmm? Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi - So you are the one they call Dovahkiin? Hmmm? You do not look like a dragon.  
> * Zu’u dahmaan hi nol Helgen - I recognize you from Helgen.  
> * Vobalaan joor - Worthless mortal.  
> *Sahloknir! Ziil gro dovah ulse! - Sahloknir! Eternal Dragon Spirit!  
> * Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik? - Alduin, my lord! An age has past, did you not destroy the power of the ancient kings?  
> * Geh, Sahloknir, kaali mir - Yes, Sahloknir, my loyal champion.  
> * Sahloknir, krii daar joorre - Sahloknir, kill these mortals.  
> * Saraan hi dinok, Dovahkiin - Your death awaits, Dovahkiin  
> * Grah hi hind? - You wish for battle?  
> * Hi nikriin los nid Dovah! - You are no dragon, coward!  
> * Alduin… fen du hin sil - May Alduin... consume your soul.


	13. A Dangerous Game for a Heretic - Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigrun blanched at his words but the unbridled heat pooling in his eyes caused her heart to race. That he would be so bold here, amongst his own, was far more surprising. She took several steps back, slowly attempting to put some distance between them.  
> Despite her best efforts, he followed, easily maneuvering her without her realizing it. Before long, she found herself backed into a darkened corner. It was an odd feeling for the roles to be reversed, with her as the prey and not the hunter.  
> The room had been well lit when she first arrived but now that night had fallen, only the warm glow of the candles remained. In other circumstances, Sigrun may have thought it charming and beautifully laid out; perhaps even romantic. The entire setup gave a sense of warmth and intimacy that encouraged the sharing of secrets and private conversations. It was unnerving how the Thalmor seemed to be able to change their tactics when the situation called for it. Ondolemar had proven to be no different than his brethren.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I want to apologize for making anyone following this story wait for three months for an update. That was never supposed to happen. Life kind of kicked my ass and things got very busy. I am still working on this chapter, which is why I've split it into two parts. I just really wanted to post something and this part was pretty much complete.
> 
> If you've read my comments, you know I've been struggling with how I wanted this scene to go. I got a little overly ambitious with this entire story and well, it kind of overwhelmed me for a bit. I think I've mostly got it sorted now.
> 
> This chapter sort of touches on Sigrun's Imperial side of her family and vaguely, their past. More will be revealed later.
> 
> I also really, *really* need to do a better job of editing. Consider yourself forewarned. :)
> 
> ***There are graphic mentions of torture in the first part of this chapter, so if you do not care for that sort of thing, I suggest you skip it. :)

_Plip._

The Breton tried closing his eyes and tried to will away his pain.  His arms burned from being stretched uncomfortably over his head for days, perhaps weeks; it was now to the point where he dared not move them lest he further chafe his already raw and blistered wrists. 

Shuddering with each breath, he closed his eyes against the hopelessness of his situation.  He had been a greedy fool and now in some form of sick irony, he was too weak to even pray for death.  He was going to rot here in his own little corner of Oblivion.

_Plop. Plip._

Small squeaks and rustling scratches came from behind him and his skin crawled.  Rats were not unfamiliar territory but he never had to bed next to them either.

_Plop._

In the distance, a door creaked open and then closed.  _Plip.  Plip…. Plop._  

His head hung down defeatedly between his outstretched arms.  The heavy click of booted heels striking against the stone only brought a sense of dread.   The stride was long and sure-footed; masculine.

_Plip.  Plop._

He wanted to scream. 

 _Plip_. 

The incessant droplets of rain water leaking in through the crumbling stones of his cell and plopping into the stagnant puddles around him were going to drive him mad.  For however many days he’d been here, he heard nothing but the plip-plopping of those drops with only the occasional screech of a rat to break up the monotony.

As the footfalls grew closer, the rats in his cell stirred into a frenzy.  Their chirping squeals turned into full blown shrieks of terror as they scrambled back into the shadows. There was probably ten or twelve of them.  Maybe more.  He didn’t really want to know.  He was just thankful that they hadn’t yet bitten through his shoes.  Eventually, they would breach the crumbling leather and start to bite at his flesh.

The boots stopped in front of his cell.  There was a clanging of keys against the iron bars as his barrier against the free world was unlocked.  The rusty hinges screeched in protest as the door was pushed wide.

_Plip. Plip._

He heard the boots scraping against the gravelly stone as they approached him.  The Breton focused his bleary gaze on those the boots.  They were same ones from yesterday and yet, they were different. Thick embossed leather and rounded tips poking out from beneath the hem of a black and gold robe.  Seeing them, he was reminded again of his own aching feet.  These were beautiful boots.

“You’ve made this a very unpleasant situation for yourself.”

 _Such a cultured accent for the harbinger of death._   

“I can be merciful, provided you tell me what I need to know.” 

The Breton did not respond.  The tendons in his arms were burning and he doubted he even had the strength to lift his head to look his tormentor in the face.

“No?”  It was such a small and common word to be spoken with such sophistication.  “Have you enjoyed your stay here so much?”

It had been too long; he had lost count sometime around the sixth day.  His mind was too addled from the lack of water and food to process much of anything else besides the presence of the rats. 

The Breton passed a dry tongue over chapped, bleeding lips.  He gave a miserable sounding croak and the Justiciar before him clucked and shook his head. 

“Would you like some water, Breton?”

The prisoner nodded his head vigorously. 

“Commander Ondolemar has been unsuccessful in getting you to speak, so he’s decided to make use of _my_ services as interrogator.  I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced as of yet.  You may call me Rulindil, if you must.  And your name is?”

The man gave a miserable groan.  The formality of the introduction under such circumstances stirred rage from somewhere deep inside of him.

There was a swish of fabric and the robes momentarily left his view.  A few moments later a cup of rancid water was pressed to his lips.  He drank it greedily.  Perhaps too greedily. 

He coughed violently as some of the water came back up and landed with a splatter at his captor’s feet.

The Breton was mildly satisfied that some of the water landed on those beautiful boots and beaded against the hem of the robes.

The prisoner tried looking up but he was still too weak to lift his head.  Breathing heavily, he gave the Justiciar a side-long glare.

“Bastard Elf.” 

The man cried out in pained surprise as his head was yanked up by the roots of his dark hair.  His words struck far more personally than he realized.

“Found your voice, Breton?”  Smug amusement tinged with malice dripped from the Agent’s words as he tightened his fist in the man’s hair.  “I highly doubt that is your given name.  Shall we try again?”

The Breton squinted in the dark but he couldn’t quite make out the features of the hooded face looming over him.

“Etienne.  Etienne Rarnis.” 

“Better.”  The Inquisitor let go of his hair.  “Now, will you be so kind as to tell me who was behind your little ruse in Markarth?”

Etienne gave a recalcitrant response: “I don’t need to tell you anything.”

Instantly, leather-clad hands gripped his throat and squeezed brutally, causing the Breton to sputter in shock.  Eyes bulging, he gave wheezing gasps and strained against the rusty shackles as the fight for his life took over instinctually.

Where others failed with the more “defiant” prisoners, Rulindil had succeeded. This was how a ‘Half-breed Bastard’ rose to Third Emissary within the ranks of the Thalmor.  He was willing to openly practice the unsavory methods of torture without the squeamishness of his Altmer colleagues.  Rulindil now realized why Ondolemar had difficulty with this particular prisoner. 

Rulindil, however, remained unfazed.  “Breton, I am _quickly_ losing what little patience I have left.  I am not nearly as lenient a mer as the Commander.”  His fingers tightened their vice-like grip, causing Etienne’s face to turn a deep shade of purple, “I expect your cooperation and should you refuse, I will squeeze out whatever pathetic little life you have left, do you understand?  No one will mourn the loss of yet another human parasite.  _Now. Answer.  My. Questions_.”

Thankfully, the elf relinquished his grasp on Etienne’s throat.  The Breton bucked in his chains and took in as much air as he could.  He coughed and panted, his throat burning like fire as he tried to speak, “A w-woman paid me.  It was a set up.  I m-met her in the Ratway… in- in Riften.”

“Explain.”   The Justiciar folded his arms across his chest, waiting for further elaboration.

“I was contacted by a woman in R-Riften.  She gave me a thousand septims to disguise myself as a Blade’s Agent.”

“And why would she do that?”

“I… I don’t know.  She just said that I was to make myself known to the townsfolk to get the rumor spread that I was a former Blade.  I thought it was some sort of joke!  I didn’t even think the Blades existed anymore!”

“Describe this woman.”

“I… I can’t.  It was hard to see in the-” 

 “I don’t think you’re being entirely honest with me, Breton.”  The refined voice held just a hint of impatience but it was deadly.

“She… she was w-wearing a hood and c-covered from head to toe in leather.  B-blue eyes.  She had very light blue eyes.  That’s all I remember.”

Etienne swallowed the lump in his bruised throat, “I guess she knew the Thieves Guild operated there and I happened to be the first one she saw.  She was looking for someone else too.  An old man.  She had asked me where he lived.”

“I see.”  There was a long pause.  Tendrils of dread began creeping down Etienne’s spine as the robed inquisitor stepped closer.  He gave a yelp as his jaw was grabbed and angled so they were face to face.  Etienne couldn’t stop himself from quailing in fear as he stared back into pupilless black eyes.

“This old man… Is his name Esbern, perchance?”

“I d-don’t know anyone with that name.” 

Pitiless eyes fixed on him.  “More lies.”

The Breton relaxed in his chains as the hand that had just been gripping his face dropped away.  The tall robed elf moved to a table of instruments and picked up a cat o’ nine tails.  “I see you’d prefer to do this the hard way.  Unfortunately for you, human, I have a great many methods at my disposal to get the information I need.  You will either tell me now or you will tell me later but in the end, I always get the information and you should know, I am _very good_ at what I do.”

Etienne panicked as the elf moved to stand behind him.  “L-look, all I know is there is an old man living there who keeps to himself.  I pointed her in that direction.  Maybe that’s this Esbern you’re talking about, I-I don’t know.  He never leaves and I’ve never seen a-anyone visit him except this one woman.  I… I… I don’t even know his name.  I’ve never t-talked to him.  I’m telling you everything!  P-Please!” 

“I presume you’re familiar enough with the Thalmor to know of our reputation in dealing with people who try to _interfere_ in our operations?”

The Breton shook his head, ashamed of the hot tears streaming down his face.  “I didn’t...” 

“Silence, Breton.”  The back of his tunic was ripped open, exposing his rapidly emaciating form to the Elf behind him.  “You unwittingly disguised yourself as a member of an organization known to have committed acts of terrorism against not only the Thalmor, but the Altmer people.  You were in Markarth to specifically to disrupt our officers and lead them on, for lack of a better description, a goose chase.  You will not give us the name nor an accurate description of the person involved in paying you to commit such an idiotic crime.  You have also refused to corroborate evidence we have identifying the man in the Ratway as Esbern, though you admit to… _living_ there.  The last two aren’t necessarily your fault but you will pay for them anyway.  It was a foolish mistake on your part to cross the Thalmor. Now take your punishment and let this be a lesson, Mr. Rarnis.”

Etienne’s voice trembled with pleading desperation, “I’m sorry.  It was a lot of gold.  I am just a thief from Riften.  I don’t get involved in politics!  I didn’t know I was interfering in _anything_!”

There was only darkness and silence. 

“Please, y-you have to believe me!!”

_Plip. Plop.  Plip._

There was a sort of comfort in the droplets now as he waited for the Inquisitor to respond.  When he did, it was with the lash.  Etienne’s anguished screams rang off the stone walls as the bladed whip tore into his flesh.  He was afraid of death before but now, he welcomed the thought of it.  He prayed Arkay would be merciful and take him swiftly. 

He lost count of how many times the lash bit into his back and ribs but the puddles in the room ran red with his blood.

_Plip._

\-----------------------

The evening sun cast long shadows on the road as her carriage came to a halt.  Snowflakes had just begun to fall and drifted lazily through the air, they were few but no doubt more would follow as night fell.  Sigrun took a deep breath and stepped down from the carriage, trying to squash her frayed nerves.  This plan of infiltrating the Thalmor Embassy was well out of her realm of expertise and it was hard to contain her anxiety. 

She wasn’t nearly as confident as Delphine had been regarding her cover. Truth be told, it hadn’t been all that hard to disguise Sigrun as an Imperial.  All it had really taken was a dark wig and a fine dress.  The rest was all peripheral touches to add authenticity.

They had made up her face in typical Imperial fashion; heavily rouged lips and darkened eyebrows.  To give her an air of wealth and belonging, she was adorned her in sapphires to match her gown.  When she had looked in the mirror before leaving, the Nord girl with the ragged braids and war paint had all but ceased to exist. 

In addition to the physical changes, she’d taken her grandmother’s surname of Varo and the Imperialized version of her own first name, Sybil, as an alias. 

Delphine reassured her that no one would think twice of an Imperial noblewoman from Solitude attending a soiree given by the Thalmor.  It was expected if nothing else.

Somehow through connections with certain nobles in Skyrim, Delphine had made all the proper arrangements and managed to get her name on the guest list.  Sigrun had received the invitation via courier and a missive to meet with one of Delphine’s spies from within the embassy, a Bosmer by the name of Malborn.   Despite their rather flawless cover, the wood elf had done little to ease her nerves, he had been extremely anxious and wasn’t at all convinced Delphine’s plan would work.  Sigrun still had her own suspicions about whether or not the ploy would be effective enough to get her the information she needed.

It was too late to turn back now. 

Sigrun took a deep breath and braced herself for the first of many tests.  She put her nose slightly in the air and walked with the self-assurance of someone who belonged at the event. 

As she approached, one of the guards stepped from her post to greet her. Her large, honey colored eyes settled on Sigrun with disinterest.  

Sigrun handed her invitation to the guard and smiled.  The Altmer quickly scanned the invitation for the Emissary’s seal and nodded her head in approval.

“Welcome, my Lady.  Please go in and do enjoy yourself.”  The Altmer gave her a polite inclination with her head and fell back to her post.  Sigrun’s brows rose at the sincere politeness in her tone.

_How civil they are to those who have power…_

Walking up the stone steps, Sigrun ran a hand nervously over her throat out of habit, seeking her amulet.  It was locked faraway in Riverwood and Sigrun felt the weight of its absence. She took another deep breath; pulling her fur cloak tighter over her shoulders, subconsciously using it as a barrier of protection.

The Embassy was a large and imposing edifice of magnificent stonework with tall, intricately colored glass windows.  Thick icicles had formed from the melting snow on the roof and decorated the ornately carved moldings. They loomed above, greedily collecting the remaining sunlight and sparkling like large diamonds against the gray stone.  She mounted the steps, one by one, drawing up her confidence and setting her mind to the task at hand. 

When she entered, she hesitated in awe.  Her eyes swept over the room, taking in the opulence.  The room was the epitome of Imperial luxury.  Candelabras of crystal were in every corner, setting the room aglow with their soft light. The windows were covered in rich red satins and velvets tied back by woven gold braids. The furniture was a deep, dark wood, polished to gleam in the candle light. Thick, plush Khajiity rugs in various colors and patterns adorned pale marble floors.  Trays laden heavily with food and drink were everywhere; everything from candied fruits and sweetmeats to imported cheeses and wines were set out in a great feast. 

It was a vague reminder of a trip she had taken to Cyrodiil with her mother once, to visit family.  Sigrun had only been six at the time but she remembered, clearly, the vast differences from the stark way of living in Skyrim.  Being one of the few memories Sigrun had of her mother, it brought forth an unexpected ache within her heart, for the following year after their visit, her mother had died and Sigrun never left Skyrim again. 

Having been so swept up in her own thoughts, Sigrun failed to notice she had caught the attention of the First Emissary. 

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

Momentarily startled by the voice in her ear, Sigrun quickly turned her head to see who had come to stand beside her.  Being caught off guard was not something that happened to her with any frequency.  Acute observation from the shadows often allowed her to be prepared for anything. 

Except now.

“Very lovely.” She said, pasting a polite smile on her face and fulling facing the female in Thalmor robes standing next to her. 

The Altmer’s eyes traveled over Sigrun in scrutiny, taking in her upswept hair, her jewels, her painted red lips. 

“I would normally offer you a warm welcome but I don’t believe we’ve had the honor of being formally introduced.”  The Emissary extended her hand, “I am Elenwen, Thalmor Ambassador to Skyrim.” 

“Sybil Varo.  Pleased to meet you, Ambassador.”  She gave a slight nod and took the woman’s thin hand; noticing that the elf’s grip was weak and insincere.  “This is absolutely beautiful.  I must commend you on your impeccable taste.” 

The Emissary appeared to be sufficiently flattered by Sigrun’s over the top admiration.  It was unbelievable that anyone could be fooled by such ridiculousness but Delphine had insisted on it.  Such flowery praise amongst Nords was more likely to earn you a punch in the jaw; Altmer, unsurprisingly, seemed to be very different.

Sigrun, now taking her own turn to size up the woman next to her, couldn’t help but admire the elf.  She was stunning in a sort ethereal, inhuman way. She was tall, willowy thin and stood with the dignified bearing of a queen.  Her fine golden hair was just barely tinged with gray and it was elegantly swept back from her face.  She had eyes the color of champagne and they were heavily lined with kohl. Something about them reminded Sigrun vaguely of a hungry sabrecat.  She was not unlike other Altmer females. Her features held the same vulpine quality but it was especially noticeable given her cheekbones were rouged to accentuate their height and sharpness.  When she had spoken, her voice had held the maturity and self-assurance of a woman in late middle age, although for Sigrun, it was always difficult to assume such approximations where elves were concerned.

The Emissary was beautifully dressed in what Sigrun could only assume was the formal version of their usual black and gold attire.  It was the same cut and style, only made of more luxurious materials.  The outer floor length vest was a lush black velvet, while the robe underneath was grayish-black and made of finely knit spider-silk.  The entire uniform was accented with intricately woven gold embroidery and held together by a belt clip of what appeared to be solid gold, bearing their insignia proudly.

The Emissary raised an eyebrow at Sigrun’s quick inspection but said nothing to indicate she noticed. After all, she was used to being admired. 

“Ah, yes, I remember seeing that name on the guest list now.  House Varo, _very_ loyal supporters of the Empire…”

Sigrun gave a nervous smile, her eyes darting to Malborn.  From her distance, she could clearly see the Woodelf beginning to turn an odd shade of red; lips twitching in panic as he pretended to wipe down the bar.

Sigrun looked back to the Emissary, her voice sounding a lot more confident than she was feeling.  “Yes, they are indeed.” 

“I remember them _well_ from the war.”  Elenwen’s large yellow eyes narrowed, though she continued to smile.

Sigrun knew she was being baited and felt it wiser not to respond.  Her mother’s family had been very wealthy and influential during the reign of the Septims are were exceedingly loyal to the Empire.  Her grandfather had been a legionnaire during the time of the Great War and their entire house had put its wealth behind the Empire and to opposing the White Gold Concordat.  Unfortunately to salvage what was left of his Empire, Titus Mede had given in to the Thalmor’s demands and her grandfather, along with several other dissidents, had been executed after the treaty's signing.   

Perhaps it was foolish to have taken her mother’s surname.   

Elenwen continued, disrupting Sigrun’s thoughts: “Well, I think it’s quite good for the Empire to have such an _influential_ family in this- in… _Skyrim_. And naturally, seeing that the Empire’s current interests align so well with the interests of the Thalmor, I’d say that almost makes us allies now. It is always amusing how things change, is it not?” 

There was something cunning and double edged to the woman’s words and it made Sigrun’s skin crawl.  This woman had directly caused her cousin, Ulfric, an incredible amount of suffering to hear him tell it. The urge to stick a dagger in her throat was starting to become overwhelming.

Desperately needing to take her mind off of murder and having been briefed by Delphine on the basics of Altmer etiquette, Sigrun changed the subject and pulled the Ambassador back into polite conversation once again. “So, do you host these parties often?”

“Quite often, yes.”  Elenwen said dismissively, already bored with the mundane chatter.  “Shall I have someone collect your cloak?  I fear you will find yourself overly warm if you plan on spending the rest of your evening covered in furs.”

Sigrun gave a knowing smile, realizing that the woman was more curious than courteous, “Oh, yes, of course.  I was so swept away by all of this finery I had forgotten.  I apologize.”

“There is no need.  Malborn, take her cloak, will you?”  The woman snapped her fingers twice, not bothering to look at whom she was addressing.

Sigrun’s smile turned into a scowl as soon as the Altmer’s back was turned.

\------

From across the crowded room, Ondolemar stood with his fellow Dominion officers, listening just enough to their conversation so as not appear rude.  He observed the room with casual indifference, one arm resting on the mantle of the hearth, a glass of brandy in the other.

He hated these gatherings; they were always full of pomp and circumstance and little else.  Every single person, himself included, was there for a reason and all of them had to do with matters of self-interest.

Distractedly, he took a deep drink from his glass wishing the evening would just end so he could retire to his chambers and read for a while.  The trip up to the Embassy had been a long one and he longed for the sweet relief of solitude.  As he was about to take another mouthful brandy, a woman he couldn't recall seeing previously at Elenwen's gatherings entered the room.

She briefly spoke with Elenwen and he noticed their exchange to be relatively unthreatening; one could even say it was ‘almost’ friendly where the Ambassador was concerned.  A slight furrow in the woman’s brow told Ondolemar that she was less than amused with his superior’s overtly false form of 'politeness'.

The young woman was seemingly unaware of his gaze as she handed her cloak to the Wood Elf tending the bar.  Ondolemar continued to watch with amusement as several pairs of eyes were drawn to her.  She wore a simple, yet elegant dress of deep blue velvet trimmed in white lace, the square cut of the bodice was low and invited lingering stares.  Her long, dark hair was piled neatly atop her head, adorned with a circlet of silver sapphires.  She was the very height of what one would consider "Imperialistic" beauty and he allowed himself a brief moment to appreciate it before dismissing her as inadequate.

Imperials and their culture were inferior of course, but it was a close enough mirror to Altmeri society with its hierarchies and social structures to not be completely dismissed altogether.  It was at the very edge of _appropriateness_ for an Altmer to admire an Imperial in any way other than for servitude. The occasional dalliance had been permitted and largely ignored before the war but naturally, that had changed. Members of the Thalmor, however, had never been given such liberties. Ondolemar didn't need the reminder, considering his own recent slippage.

He returned his attention to a fellow Justiciar who was currently grousing about not getting enough support from the Dominion or Empire with the difficulty he was having in Whiterun Hold enforcing the ban on Talos worship.  According to his complaint, one of the Thane's there had been instrumental in getting the Thalmor completely removed from the city. She had made a point that the Thalmor had little, if any influence in the eastern areas of Skyrim and the Jarl had seen fit to side with her position. Instead of doing the banning, the Justiciar found himself the one banned. Unlike his compatriot, Ondolemar found the situation more amusing than aggravating. There was something to be admired about the Nords' sense of Nationalism and how they were willing to fight for what they believed in. They were not so different from the Dominion in that respect. 

Ondolemar drifted out of the conversation again and instead found himself thinking of Eastmarch.  Much to his own chagrin, he found himself staring at the young Imperial woman again.  She was speaking with the Jarl of Morthal. The occasional glimpses of white teeth through full lips as she spoke made her seem oddly familiar.  When she smiled, his mind filled with the scent of vanilla and wildflowers. There was something about the high cheek bones and swell of her lips that kept drawing his eyes.  The fine scar along her jaw…  It wasn’t possible.  Couldn’t be possible…

…And yet, somehow, he could not shake the feeling.   Watching the woman intently, he waited for her to turn back around so he could get a better look.

She must’ve felt the weight of his stare because she hesitated and curiously peered over her shoulder, a dark brow raised in an unspoken question.

_Eyes like shards of silver._

It was her after all.

His gaze locked with hers and watched as her lips parted in surprise.

There was what can only be described as an unpleasant fluttering in his chest as recognition dawned on them both.  Despite her best attempts at disguise, she could not know that he would have been able to pick her out of a million women, no matter what the circumstance.

_A little lamb amongst the wolves.  Such a dangerous game you play…_

Sigrun looked away and turned her attention to one of the trays of food.  Ondolemar was about to excuse himself from his colleagues but he was too late.  He watched helplessly as one of the guests cornered her against the table.

Ondolemar bristled. 

_Erikur. One of Elenwen’s spies._

Ondolemar recalled his first impressions of the man and was mildly surprised to find they hadn’t changed.   He knew Erikur as a smarmy little man whose taste in clothing was as garish as his personality.  The first time they had met had been around three years ago. Ondolemar hadn’t been in Skyrim for very long.  Perhaps a month.  At the time, Erikur had loved to boast about his “loyalty” to the High King and how it had garnered him a place as a Thane in his Court.

Easily seeing through his bravado, Ondolemar recalled that the Emissary had offered him an undisclosed amount of Thalmor gold for his cooperation as an ally in the King’s court.  She had even gifted him with a Court Mage of his own; mostly to keep an eye on things and to make sure he continued to comply with Thalmor interests. 

After High King Torygg’s death and at the Emissary’s behest, Erikur had promised to find a way to dispose of Elisif’s current Court Mage and install Melaran as her replacement.  It had been nearly three months and no progress had been made on that front.  Elenwen’s patience was beginning to run thin.

Three years later, the man hadn’t changed.  Ondolemar could easily hear him over the din of the room.  Only now, he was blathering on about how he had been nothing but an asset to Jarl Elisif since the tragic death of her husband and how he was a rather important figure in her court. Sigrun was doing her best to remain polite, nodding her head, smiling and trying not to draw any undue attention to herself.

Ondolemar, as restless as he was, shifted his weight to the other leg and drained his glass.  No matter how much he tried to ignore Sigrun’s presence, his gaze kept involuntarily sliding back to her and Erikur. The chubby Nord, misconstruing her politeness for invitation, slowly invaded her space, all the while hungrily leering down at her cleavage.

As he watched them, the heat of the room had become suffocating for Ondolemar.  Perhaps it was the brandy or the heavy velvet robes or the press of bodies closing in around him, either way he was growing increasingly uncomfortable and found it difficult to maintain his air of indifference. 

Absentmindedly, he pulled at the high collar of his robes in irritation.

“Would you not agree, Commander?”  One of his companions asked, bringing half of his attention back to their conversation.

Ondolemar cleared his throat, “Pardon?”

“I was just remarking that if the Empire-”

Ondolemar’s eyes drifted back to Sigrun again, already losing interest in the political discussion at hand.

He watched as Erikur slowly slid the knuckle of his forefinger down Sigrun’s arm and leaned in to whisper something against her ear.  She visibly stiffened and the telltale signs of barely concealed rage pinkened her cheeks.

It must’ve been the stuffiness of the room finally getting to him, Ondolemar rationalized in his mind as he slammed his now empty brandy glass on the mantle of hearth.  Without pretense, he made a gruff excuse and abruptly left the conversation he’d been having before Sigrun walked in. The sudden change in his demeanor left his fellow Thalmor dignitaries watching after him in stunned silence.    Ondolemar pushed his way through the crowd towards Sigrun, his fingers itching to squeeze the life from Erikur’s flabby throat.

_________

Sigrun had been more than aware of Ondolemar's eyes on her from across the room.  The heavy weight of that gaze boring into her had made her heart leap nervously.  She knew he had immediately recognized her and did her best to try and blend into the crowd to avoid a confrontation.  She was at first relieved to find he didn’t approach or question her.  For a moment, she thought he was going to leave well enough alone and make her job exponentially easier until Thane Erikur had come along. 

According to Delphine’s plan, _he wasn’t even supposed to be here._ Apparently, the attempt at keeping him busy in Markarth had failed.  Miserably.

Sigrun began worrying as the situation she dreaded began to unfold before her.  Seeing Ondolemar approach, she quickly turned her back to him.  The oaf Erikur was at her side, continuing to whisper in her ear about how much money he had and how well he would compensate her if she agreed to spend the evening in his chambers. He kept pressing her for answer, completely failing to notice an enraged Altmer heading in his direction. 

As she was about to snap at the man’s audacity for daring to presume and then soliciting her so openly, Sigrun felt his hand on the small of her back.  He wasted no time in taking full advantage of her distracted fretting and his fat, sausage fingers began to creep far lower than she was comfortable with. So riled was her temper, she was about to forgo this entire plan and slam her fist into his pig-face. 

Unfortunately, this was not the time or place to draw attention to herself, so she tried politely moving away.  Erikur’s fingertips pressed into her, sending a subtle message that he would not tolerate a rebuff of his advances.

“Bored with the serving girls, _Thane_?”  The sliver of violence in Ondolemar’s voice caused Sigrun to shudder and Erikur to whirl around, eyes wide with alarm. 

The not so subtle threat was easily discernible to Erikur, who looked up and chuckled nervously, “I was just making myself acquainted.  I assumed your Emissary was kind enough to provide… err…‘entertainment’ for the evening. She's never objected to my taking her serving girls to my room.”

“You’re a terribly presumptuous little man.”

Erikur, affronted by the contemptuousness in Ondolemar’s tone, puffed up his chest and frowned, “What do you mean by that, huh?  You can’t speak to me like that.  I’m a very powerful courtier of Jarl Elisif’s and your Emissary has made it abundantly clear how important I am to your-”

Ondolemar chose not to say another word but had charged the air around them with electricity. Sigrun shivered as the fine hairs on her arms prickled in response.  As if a storm were about to be unleashed in the room itself, the sharp smell of ozone became almost overwhelming.  There could be no mistaking the mage’s intentions.   

Erikur, sensing a need for self-preservation, had clamped his mouth shut before finishing his sentence.

Sigrun’s eyes darted between the two males.  Ondolemar lacked the considerable girth of the other man but his broad shoulders, height and black garb posed a far more intimidating threat.

The podgy Nord hesitated, clearly debating the wisdom of crossing a Thalmor wizard in his own Embassy. Beads of sweat formed on his upper lip and the muscles of his throat worked as he swallowed nervously. 

“I _suggest_ you find your 'entertainment' elsewhere.”  Sigrun noted by the tone of Ondolemar’s voice that it was not really a suggestion.

Erikur wisely removed his hand from Sigrun’s waist and raised his upturned palms. “Okay, okay.  You want her for yourself, that much is clear.  I don’t blame you.  She is a _fine_ piece of ass. No harm, no foul.” 

Suppressing the instinct to call up his magicka and plant a lightning bolt through the other man’s forehead, Ondolemar merely lifted his upper lip in disgust.  “If you wish to remain in the good graces of the Thalmor, you should refrain from making further disparaging remarks against our guests.”  
Sigrun saw that familiar tic in Ondolemar’s jaw.  The Thane was in dangerous territory. 

Erikur seemed aware that his jest did not go over well.  His voice stuttered and cracked, “I’ll uh… I’ll just be going.  Y-You have my apologies.” He scurried away like a skeever, not bothering to look back.

Ondolemar turned his attention to Sigrun, the aggravation in his features dissipating.  “Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize you?”

Sigrun side stepped him and moved to the other side of the table, appearing as casual as possible.  She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly, filled her plate with food and refused to acknowledge his presence.

Ondolemar was not easily put off. “Your temerity is rather astonishing, _Nord_.”

This time, Sigrun did turn around to face him.  The Commander stood tall, powerful and regally garmented in his black velvet and gold.  Beneath the shade of his hood, his green eyes glinted with something close to amusement as they moved over her, “I believe you were instructed to remain in Eastmarch.”

“I am not like one of these spineless cowards you can order around.” She gestured around the room. “Much like you, my duties sometimes require me to travel elsewhere.” 

Ondolemar took another brandy glass from a passing tray.  He raised a brow, “Oh?  What duties are those?” 

“I feel no obligation to share that information.”

“I see.”  He raised the glass to his lips and drank, nodding his head as if contemplating her words.  “You do realize, given the current circumstances and your rather obvious attempt at disguise, I might think you a spy.”

Sigrun scoffed and bit gingerly into a strawberry.

Ondolemar felt his blood warm as he watched her painted lips close slowly over the fruit.  Disliking the direction of his thoughts, he changed his tone to one slightly more cutting.

“However, given the barbaric nature of Nords, such a sophisticated approach is unlikely; which leaves me wondering what your true motivations… or as you put it, ‘duties’ could _possibly_ be.”

His condescending manner caused Sigrun to fix her gaze on him once again but instead of the rage he was hoping to stoke, she merely rolled her eyes.

“And what does that say about the Thalmor that they would stoop so low as to politick with these so-called ‘barbarians’?”  Two could play this game, she thought to herself.  “Perhaps there is some truth to the rumors about your desperation after all.  Your failures in Hammerfell are well documented.”  She took another bite of the berry, watching the direction of his gaze and the ever so slight flaring of his nostrils.

It was a dangerous game. 

“Such bold claims for one recently acquitted of heresy to make.  You know nothing about the successes or failures of the Thalmor, Nord.”   Ondolemar’s defense was hollow, her insult hadn’t upset him nearly as much as it should have. He was indeed frustrated but it had more to do with his own visceral response to her continued impudence.

The pupils of his green eyes narrowed down at her.

“It’s highly suspicious that you, of all the people in Skyrim, would be _here_.  Would you not agree?”

“I don’t think I need to spell that out for you, do I?”  Sigrun sighed and sipped from her wine glass.

 “A known Stormcloak supporter dressed as an Imperial in the Thalmor Embassy, unaccompanied… with what, I’m going to assume, is a forged invitation.  You see?  It’s all really quite damning.”

“Am I being interrogated?”

“No.”

“It feels like it.”

“Perhaps that’s the guilt speaking.” Ondolemar took a long drink from his glass, savoring the taste of the spicy brandy on his tongue and welcoming the uninhibited bliss it was having on him.

Sigrun found the conversation far less enjoyable. She leaned in towards him and hissed, “Do you plan to make a scene and out me here?  If you do, by all means, do it now and don’t be such a coward by trying to bait me into doing it myself.” 

He gave her a predatory smile, “And ruin everyone’s fun?  _Never._ ” 

Sigrun felt like she was about wither beneath his piercing gaze.  She began to inwardly panic; snooping around the Thalmor was not her forte and she silently cursed Delphine for getting her into this mess.  He shouldn’t have been here to begin with and now he was an unnecessary complication in more ways than one. 

Ondolemar, no longer willing to play mind games, sat his glass on the table, “I couldn’t care less about the rest of these swine.  My only concern is _you_ and why you’re _here_.”  Looking up, the slow burn igniting within his gaze was difficult to mistake.  Sigrun stared back at him, warily contemplating her next move.

The seconds ticked by as if they were minutes, wispy remnants of memories from their last encounter drifting in the air between them.

The corner of Ondolemar’s mouth lifted in a wry smile, “You make a rather poor imitation of an Imperial, I should note; your cloddish Nord mannerisms easily give you away.  And now that I've seen it up close, that wig is utterly atrocious.”

“I seem to have fooled everyone else so far.  Including your Emissary.”  Ondolemar felt another twitch beneath his robes at her snide observation.

“Your only advantage is that they don’t know you.  You seem to forget, I know with whom you are allied and I know of the rumors surrounding you and well… to be perfectly frank, I don’t exactly trust you.”

Sigrun blanched at his words but the unbridled heat pooling in his eyes caused her heart to race.   That he would be so bold here, among his own, was far more surprising.  She took several steps back, slowly attempting to put some distance between them. 

Despite her best efforts, he followed, easily maneuvering her without her realizing it.  Before long, she found herself backed into a darkened corner.   It was an odd feeling for the roles to be reversed, with her as the prey and not the hunter.  

The room had been well lit when she first arrived but now that night had fallen, only the warm glow of the candles remained.  In other circumstances, Sigrun may have thought it charming and beautifully laid out; perhaps even romantic. The entire setup gave a sense of warmth and intimacy that encouraged the sharing of secrets and private conversations.  It was unnerving how the Thalmor seemed to be able to change their tactics when the situation called for it. Ondolemar had proven to be no different than his brethren.

Sigrun glanced around, making sure no one was watching their exchange.  She found the other guests far too self-absorbed or inebriated to notice their rapidly heating conversation. She silently thanked the stars for that small blessing.  Of course, Ondolemar did nothing idly.  He already knew no one would pay attention to either of them and had pinned Sigrun into a corner before she realized what was happening.  Given her experience, she really should have known better.

She regarded Ondolemar suspiciously, not liking the feel of the cold stone at her back or the heat gathering between her legs.

“Perhaps you’ll be willing to divulge now that we’re in a more… _intimate_ area of the room.”  He leaned a slender shoulder against the wall, crossed his arms and leveled her with a penetrating gaze, managing to look absolutely elegant and poised while doing so.  Her attraction to him was so overwhelming that she found it difficult to breathe.

“Perhaps.”

Again, he chose to let the silence hang between them. 

“Well?”  The word was drawn out with a husky pitch.  Sigrun fiddled with her wine glass, nails tapping anxiously against the stem.  He was making it very difficult for her to focus.

Trying to sound flippant, she took another drink of wine before setting the glass on the table. “It’s really none of your concern.” 

“I am a Thalmor Justiciar.  _Everything_ is my concern.”  There was no mistaking the pride in his voice or his intentions.  Like Erikur earlier, his gaze dropped to the low-cut neckline of her gown and lingered. 

“I’m a newly named Thane in Whiterun.  I received an invitation. I have a reason to be here.”  The more complex the lie, the harder it would be to maintain.  She purposely left as little out as possible.

He was now brazenly letting his half-lidded gaze wander over her body. Ondolemar vaguely wondered if she had been the Thane responsible for kicking the Thalmor out of Whiterun. That would not be a very surprising development, although it would be highly amusing.

Sigrun felt herself flush as he continued to stare but convinced herself it was from the wine. 

“And the disguise?” He drawled.

She swallowed nervously, needing to throw him off his course of questioning.  She decided to use a different tactic, one she was sure he’d find more convincing.  And where she wouldn’t necessarily have to lie either. It was time to use the situation to her advantage.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I haven’t come for a political reason?”

He gave a derisive snort, “Oh?  By Stendarr’s Mercy, what reason could that be?”

She got as close she possibly could while keeping their interactions 'appropriate'. She shivered as her breasts brushed against the cool buckles of his robes, stood on her tiptoes and against his ear, whispered, “Perhaps I came because I thought _you_ might be here.”

Though she could not see it, chills ran down his spine.  He closed his eyes momentarily as the scent of vanilla and wildflowers assaulted his senses, bringing back the delicious memories of their night together.

She slowly backed away and his left eyebrow shot up. 

Sigrun had no time to react as he grabbed her arm, yanked her past the guests and shoved open a door behind the bar.  Sigrun looked over her shoulder at the now thoroughly terrified Malborn.   She tried sending him a look that indicated she had everything under control but doubted he believed her. 

She wasn’t sure if she believed it herself. Was he angry? It was very likely this plan of hers had just backfired.

Ondolemar lead her through a narrow hallway, dragging her behind him like a prized cow.  One of the Khajiit cooks tutted at him but he paid her no mind.  He pulled her through another set of doors and into the private quarters of the Embassy. The patrolling guards said nothing, there was no interest in their faces when they saw her plight.  One of the wizards dragging a human to their doom was likely a common enough scene that they simply ceased to notice it at all.

They went up three flights of stairs so swiftly Sigrun found herself gasping for breath.  Ondolemar dragged her into one of the rooms and kicked the door shut behind them.

When he looked back to her, breathless, she was surprised to see that he was not, in fact, angry.  One could almost presume the exact opposite. 

He stared at her for several moments before speaking.

“Remove that hideous thing.”  He said, glancing at her hair.  It was a subtle directive but the implication was clear. As if under a spell, Sigrun slowly pulled the pins out of her hair, Ondolemar intently holding her gaze with his own.  She removed the wig and watched his breath visibly hitch when her own hair came tumbling down over her shoulders.

“Better.”  He whispered thickly, recalling the many dreams he had of that hair. He was no longer ashamed to admit he loved it and the way it matched the exact shade of her eyes.  He stood before her, his hand slowly brushing her cheek. As he made a move to kiss her, a knock sounded on the door.

Ondolemar let out a long breath from his nose and closed his eyes in exasperation.  Sigrun was surprised to find herself also irrationally frustrated at the sudden interruption. 

Ondolemar hesitated, as if hoping the intruder would just leave but instead, the knocking only became more obnoxious. With the last, loud insistent knock, he reluctantly left Sigrun's side to open the door.


End file.
